You Don't Know Me
by volley
Summary: Malcolm comes back to Enterprise after a mysterious mission for Harris.
1. Chapter 1

This multi-chapter story is set in season four, a few months after Terra Prime, ignoring TATV.

Grateful thanks to Gabi2305 and RoaringMice, who beta read it. And a special hug to IchthusFish, who was my "Starship Technology & Operational Systems Theorist"! She gave me invaluable help in figuring out some of the technical stuff.

§ 1 §

He had been gone in the matter of hours. Taken off the ship.

It hadn't been the treacherous act of an alien race transporting him off the Bridge or the Armoury; he had been taken somewhere – nobody knew where – by a Vulcan ship. That guy, Harris, had called one night, and that had been that.

Malcolm hadn't liked it: Trip had known. The knowledge had started as a cold knot in his stomach and ended as a wrenching in his gut. Well, it hadn't taken a genius to know how Malcolm had felt about it. The damn man had locked himself up in his quarters to pursue his favourite sport: brood, suffer alone. Not a word to him; Malcolm had probably intended to leave without even telling him anything. It had been Archer who had informed him.

"Harris has requested Malcolm for a mission," Archer had told him in a careful voice as he had paced the ready room, to which he had summoned him well past the end of their shifts. "A Vulcan ship is picking him up in a few hours."

"How… What mission?" Trip had blurted out, his mouth, as usual, faster than his brain. If Harris was part of the picture, it wasn't likely Archer would know. And in fact he hadn't had a clue. "Is Malcolm willin'?" Trip had enquired. He had sensed something strange in the way the Captain had told him.

"He has asked me to let him go."

Archer's tone had been unrevealing; but the green eyes had said everything Trip had wanted to know, and what he had read in them had tied that first knot in his stomach. This man, his friend Jonathan, invariably wore his heart on his sleeve: there had been no mistaking the expression on his face. It had said 'I had to let him go even though I didn't want to'.

Malcolm was different. When he wanted to, Malcolm could be dying inside and not show anything. Although, over the years, Trip had got to know him better than anyone else on board, and learnt to read even through the man's poker face. He had long accepted, however, that there would always be a part of Malcolm he'd never be able to fathom. There would always be a bit of mystery, a secret chamber to which no one would have access. And that was fine with him. Not, though, Malcolm leaving on a mission for God knew how many weeks without a word.

Trip had stormed out of the ready room and marched to his friend's quarters in a muddled state, worry and irritation battling in his chest. And to hell with the fact that it had been past twenty-two-hundred. He'd been pretty damn sure that Malcolm wouldn't be asleep, anyway.

Indeed the man had opened the door looking as if he already knew who'd be there. He had taken but a glance at him and said quietly, "Trip, I don't have much time, and there are quite a few things I still need to do before I leave." His voice had been clipped but not unkind; uneasy more than anything else.

"Why?" Trip had asked directly, standing in the corridor, not even bothering to try to get invited in.

"Why what?"

"Why are you lettin' Harris take you off this ship? Away from your life?"

"I can't refuse."

Not 'I must'. The subtle but important difference between something one _must_ do and something one _can't refuse_ to do had suddenly jumped to Trip's attention.

"Malcolm, I thought you were finished with--"

"Look, I owe him one, ok?" Malcolm had cut him off harshly. "It's the last time. And then he can go to hell."

Trip could still remember the look in the grey eyes. It had belied the man's hard, determined tone.

Trip had muttered, "I thought you'd said that already."

"I have to do this; have to go back on my word," Malcolm had replied in his deep voice. And then he had spat out, "But not after this time. After this is over, Harris had better forget that I exist."

Trip had stared into the taut face of his friend, and that was when he had felt that wrenching in his gut. He'd been afraid to ask what favour Harris wanted paid back. He'd been afraid to hear that it had something to do with the events of Terra Prime, a few months back. Trip had been too involved, emotionally, to be fully aware of all that had gone on, then; and had never asked Archer, later, because he had wanted to forget. But why would Malcolm have been leaving without telling him? Had the man wanted to avoid him because he didn't want to dig up that past with him, didn't want him reliving those painful days? Didn't want him to find out that he'd gotten indebted to Harris during that crazy business, to help him and T'Pol? Trip just hadn't had the heart to ask.

"Were you gonna let me find out that you were gone when I came by the Armoury tomorrow mornin'?" he had finally blurted out, worry quenching the fire of his initial resentment.

"That was the plan."

The smile on Malcolm's face had not reached his eyes. Suddenly looking brittle, he had added, "Look, Trip… I can't tell you anything and… I've never been good at good-byes." Hugging himself tightly he had muttered, "They only make things more difficult."

Trip had nodded silently, biting his lower lip. "Promise to be careful, wherever you'll be," he had told him. "Harris or no Harris, this is where you belong. Don't you forget. Make sure you come back, and in one piece."

"I'll do my best, I promise." Malcolm's mouth had twitched in a downward smirk. "Good night, Commander."

With those innocent and ordinary words he had triggered the door closed and disappeared from their lives.

Until today.

* * *

Trip could not take his eyes off the docking arm slowly pulling Shuttlepod One up into the launchbay. It seemed an interminable operation, as if time had suddenly come to a standstill. He could feel Archer fidgeting beside him, shifting his weight back and forth; T'Pol, on the other side of him, was immobile, arms locked behind her. Darting a glance at her face he saw that her usual straight expression seemed a little absent. She often looked like that, since their daughter's death.

"Travis made good time," Jon commented, probably needing to break the silence.

Trip saw the launchbay doors finally close. "Yeah, he pushed on the gas pedal alright," he agreed. "Forty minutes to the planet and back."

Damn it, how long could it take for the bay to pressurise? He heaved a deep breath to clamp down on his anxiousness.

More than three months had passed since that early morning when a Vulcan ship had taken their Armoury Officer away; three months during which they had heard nothing from or of him. That total absence of news had been difficult. Trip had always known Enterprise's crew was special, but in that period, from the many subtle signs which had told him how much Malcom was missed, he had come to realise what a close family it had become. He supposed the months in the Expanse, and the respect Malcolm had earned himself then, had had a lot to do with it.

And then, four days ago, Hoshi's face had lit up and a lovely smile had blossomed on her lips as she had pressed on her ear-piece, as if afraid to miss something. Trip, at the Engineering console on the other side of the Bridge, had known right away.

At Warp 5 they had taken reasonably little time to get to the planet where Malcolm had been waiting. But it had still seemed like ages.

The flashing green light signalling that they now had access to the bay brought Trip back to the present. They entered the room just as the pod's top hatch was being opened. The ladder was lowered, and a moment later a dark head appeared, hair slightly longer than regulation.

Malcolm climbed a few steps and paused, hands on the rails, casting a look up. His eyes went to Archer, and emotion fleetingly showed through before it was reined in and shoved behind.

"Permission to come on board, Sir," he said, as if he no longer belonged on Enterprise.

Trip was glad to hear Archer reply, a hint of teasing in his voice, "Get up here, Lieutenant. This is your ship as much as ours. Welcome back."

Malcolm's mouth tightened with what could only be another surge of emotion, and Trip frowned in surprise: it was hardly like Malcolm to be so demonstrative. The man's eyes briefly sought him, and a transient smile made an appearance. The grey gaze looked tired, though. No, exhausted. And more than that; there was something... Trip had no time to study it, for while Malcolm climbed the last few steps his eyes shifted back to Jon.

"It's good to have you back," Archer said, clasping a hand to his Armoury Officer's shoulder.

Jon was the picture of delight.

"Thank you, Captain."

Malcolm's voice also sounded tired, Trip thought. The grey jeans and dark sweater didn't hide the fact that he had lost weight.

"Indeed, it is agreeable to see you, Lieutenant," T'Pol echoed in a welcoming tone that managed to round out the stiff Vulcan choice of adjective.

Malcolm's deep gaze lingered on her before he replied warmly, "And you, Commander."

Trip felt a touch of jealousy at the silent communication that had passed between them. These days his own communication with T'Pol was rather difficult. _Don't be such an ass –_ he reproached himself. Those two had developed a high regard for each other, as colleagues. They had always sort of understood one another, thought along the same lines. Malcolm's discipline and caution made him the most Vulcan-like Human on board, and Trip had little doubt that T'Pol had missed his balancing presence in the past three months.

Malcolm's eyes shifted back to Trip, finally remaining a moment longer. "How have you been?" he asked, shaping his lips into a quiet smile again.

"That's what I'm supposed to ask you," Trip quipped. "Good to see ya." His own grin, wide and genuine, fell a little at the impenetrable quality to Malcolm's gaze. It was as if his friend didn't want him to see something.

Nodding, Malcolm straightened his shoulders, probably to appear less worn out; then turned to Archer again. "I suppose I'll have to go through decon," he said. "And a medical check-up."

"I'm afraid that's the protocol," Archer said with a lift of his eyebrows. "Phlox is waiting. But that is your only obligation for today, Lieutenant. Unless…" He tilted his head. "If you're up to it, I'd like you to join T'Pol and me for dinner. Trip, you too, of course."

Malcolm frowned imperceptibly and his eyes flicked away, and Trip took the opportunity to shoot Archer a look like saying 'don't you know the man better after all this time?', which was acknowledged with an unobtrusive smirk.

"I'd be honoured, Captain," Malcolm croaked out. "But…" He licked his lips, obviously looking for the right words. "I'm afraid I wouldn't be very good company tonight," he eventually said. "I'm in dire need of a good night's sleep."

"Of course. Well, we'll make it another day. It's not as if you're going anywhere, at least for a while," Archer agreed in a playful tone.

Malcolm looked up sharply. "No, not for a while" he echoed, his voice marred by a hard edge.

There was a puzzled pause.

"I'd better not keep the Doctor waiting," Malcolm added uneasily, aware that he had come on a bit strongly.

"That's a good idea."

As Archer went on to say something about expecting Malcolm in his ready room the next morning, Trip studied the man who had come back to them: he was definitely a man on edge.

"Aye, Sir," Malcolm said. With a last, awkward look at Trip, he nodded and turned, and hurried off to the decon chamber.

Trip knew him too well not to realise that he had resented his assessing gaze; as he watched him walk away, questions crowded in his mind.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

§ 2 §

Hoshi caught sight of a man out of uniform disappearing around the bend of the corridor and her heart started racing.

"Malcolm!"

The man stopped and turned, and allowed her to catch up. "Ensign," he said, smiling.

Frowning naughtily, Hoshi made a big show of looking behind her. "I don't see any Ensigns."

"Hoshi," Malcolm said, his smile deepening. "It's good to see you."

"And you. We missed you." Hoshi tried not to let her eyes run him up and down. It had taken but one look to know that he hadn't done much lazing around in these three months, twelve days and eighteen hours he had been away from Enterprise.

Malcolm fidgeted with the strap of the duffel bag he had hanging over one shoulder. "Yes, it's been rather long," he said, averting his eyes.

Now that his gaze was on the floor Hoshi allowed herself a quick assessing look. Aside from the man's obvious weariness, he looked… lacklustre. Malcolm might be somewhat of an introvert, but he'd always been an energetic man; full of life, in that sense. Must be his tiredness, Hoshi told herself in an effort to quell her worry.

"So, Phlox let you out?" she teased him, knowing how much Malcolm disliked sickbay. The question, which would have once elicited a wry reply, now just brought forth a dreary, "Yes".

"You look well," Malcolm hurried to add, seemingly wanting to steer the conversation away from him. "It's good to see you," he repeated. His mouth tightened. "I'm sorry, I'm not thinking too straight. Haven't had a decent rest in… a long while."

"I won't keep you, then," Hoshi said. "See you on the Bridge."

"Yes. See you tomorrow."

With a small smile Malcolm nodded and left and Hoshi resumed her own way, willing herself to believe that now that they had their Armoury Officer back things would be back to normal.

* * *

Trip looked at the time: close to nineteen-hundred hours. Raising his eyes to the door in front of him, he considered. Should he or shouldn't he?

The few words he had exchanged with Malcolm in the launchbay had only left him with an eagerness to talk to the man again, if only to chase away the uneasy vibes he had gotten.

True, Malcolm had hinted to the fact that he was dog tired, and it hadn't only been a means to escape dinner with Archer: the man had truly looked it. But Trip doubted his friend would already be asleep. Phlox had only released him from sickbay maybe half an hour before.

He wouldn't stay long, he decided, raising a hand to ring the bell. It was answered with unexpected speed.

"Trip."

Malcolm didn't sound surprised to find him outside his door. They looked at each other. Trip suddenly remembered that except for those few words in the launchbay, it was here, on the threshold of Malcolm's quarters, that they had spoken last. This time he hoped he would be allowed inside.

"I know you're done in, but… mind if I come in for a few moments?" he asked, a bit self-consciously now that he was noticing the T-shirt and sweat pants Malcolm had changed into. The man was barefoot, and his hair was still damp from the shower he must have just taken. Maybe this was really not the right time for a social call. But he was eager to pick up their friendship again.

The pause lasted only a second but felt very long. Just when Trip thought Malcolm would politely turn him away he stepped aside with a mumbled, "Of course not".

Trip entered, noticing his friend's clothes discarded on the chair and the duffel bag thrown into a corner. Only a very tired Malcolm would do that. He wouldn't stay long, he told himself again to quiet his conscience. Taking a few steps inside, he turned. "So, you kept your promise," he said, eyes smiling.

Malcolm looked at him questioningly, head tilted to one side.

"You came back safe and sound."

"Ah, that," Malcolm replied, shaking his head as if it were full of cobwebs. "I suppose so," he added intriguingly. Walking to the chair, he removed the clothes and let them drop unceremoniously on the floor; then he sagged equally unceremoniously onto the bed, collapsing backward. His head came to rest against the wall and his chin on his chest, his neck bent in what looked like a rather uncomfortable position.

Trip blinked, surprised by this uncharacteristic lack of what the Malcolm he knew would consider 'proper form'. Sitting down on the chair – for he imagined an invitation to do so had, albeit silently, been proffered – he turned Malcolm's words in his mind. Small but glaring red lights began to flash.

"What do you mean by _I suppose so_?" he blurted out.

"Nothing." Malcolm's eyes were carefully averted as he muttered on, "Just a figure of speech."

It hadn't sounded like one, but Trip let it go. He knew that if Malcolm was determined to keep something inside, it would be hard to convince him not to.

"So, things went well," he said instead, taking the longer approach.

"Trip, you know I can't tell you anything," Malcolm unexpectedly snapped. Wincing, he added, "Fine. They went just fine."

"Yeah, I can see that."

The words were out of Trip's mouth before he could stop them. Biting his tongue, he braced for a tirade that didn't come. Malcolm just looked away.

He was doing this all wrong. He was making Malcolm clam up. And he had no right to be here when the man was in such obvious need of rest. He would apologise and leave. Before Trip could say anything, though, Malcolm spoke.

"I'm sorry," he breathed out, sounding sincere. "It's been…" Shaking his head, he concluded, "I'm okay. It's over. I'm back. That's all that counts."

Hardly reassuring.

Malcolm shifted position, stretching out on the bed, head on his pillow and knees raised. He took a deep breath and let it slowly out, closing his eyes. Trip wondered if it wasn't a manoeuvre to hide his feelings even more from him. But the drowsiness in his voice when he spoke was unmistakable, making Trip's conscience bark at him again.

"So, what have you been up to, in these months?" Malcolm slurred.

"_You_ as in _me_, or _you_ as in _us_?" Trip watched some of the tension that had been there leave his friend's body as he relaxed into his mattress.

"Both."

Trip thought for a moment. A lot had happened. "I think I've… finally started to find myself again," he said softly.

Malcolm opened his eyes long enough to shoot him a short but intense look. "That's good to hear," he murmured.

"Yeah, I guess so."

It wasn't something Trip had admitted to anyone, not even to himself. He hadn't said it to T'Pol, nor to Archer. He and T'Pol were back to being just colleagues, though they always seemed to tiptoe around each other; these simple words would have a different weight and meaning for her, and he wasn't sure he wanted her to hear them. Archer… His friendship with the man had evolved into something different; they were still close but there was less camaraderie between them. Trip was glad Malcolm was back, because he had missed someone he could share things with.

"As for the ship," Trip went on, "We've kept out of trouble." A low groan welcomed the words. "We've done quite a bit of exploring, actually. We set foot on a couple of Minshara-class planets. On one of them we found the ruins of a long-gone civilization. You oughtta have seen Hoshi, she was over the moon. We stayed a whole two weeks, and it was good for the crew."

Trip smiled to himself, thinking of the excitement that they all had experienced. For the first time in a long time he'd felt that same sense of exhilaration and wonder he'd held at the beginning of their mission. "I've got to show you the pictures I took, some day," he went on. "Some incredible structures those people built, whoever they were."

Eyes narrowed, Trip got lost in his memories as images of that mysterious city passed through his mind. "You would've loved to have been there," he added, suddenly remembering something. "We found some strange machines, weapons of some sort, but couldn't figure out what kind of projectiles they were supposed to launch. I bet you'd've had no problem."

It was when no reaction came to _that_ that Trip's attention was drawn back to the present. Malcolm had lowered his legs and the hand resting on his chest was rising and falling with it in a slow, regular rhythm, his breathing heavy with exhaustion. Trip looked at his thin face for a moment, wondering where the man had been, what he had done. When he thought of it, there was this dark side to Malcolm that made him a bit uneasy. But maybe his friend was right. The important thing was that he was back.

With a sigh, Trip got up. He looked for the extra blanket inside the wardrobe and spread it gently over the sleeping form. Malcolm's arm immediately jerked up as if to defend himself from some enemy.

"Easy," Trip said, startled by the sudden reaction. "It's only me, Trip."

Grey eyes cracked open. "Sorry," Malcolm slurred, relaxing again. "I…"

Trip chuckled softly. "Go back to sleep. I'll see ya tomorrow."

But Malcolm had already slipped back into unconsciousness, lost to the world. Well – Trip thought as he quietly let himself out – as long as he wasn't _lost to them_.

He wasn't. They had found him again. He was back. Yes, that was the only important thing.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

§ 3 §

As soon as Archer triggered the doors open, Phlox turned from his monitor to glance his way.

"Thank you for coming, Captain."

"No problem, Doc," Archer said lightly as he approached his Medical Officer. But Phlox had already turned back to the screen on his desk, looking quite concentrated, and Archer's carefully controlled worry went up a notch. Already the fact that he had been summoned to hear about Malcolm's condition hadn't boded well.

Malcolm had gone on that mission because Harris had helped them during the Terra Prime incident; and at that time he – Archer – had been the one who had asked his Armoury Officer to get in contact with his former employer. The important thing, then, had been to stop that mad business and get Trip and T'Pol – as well as their baby – back safely: Malcolm's dislike of Harris had been of secondary importance.

The after-effects of those events had been felt on board for a long time afterwards, with Trip and T'Pol having to face the loss of a baby they hadn't even known had existed and the gradual breaking of their bond. And just when, finally, the worst had seemed well behind them, Malcolm had come to his ready room with the news that Harris had requested him for a mission.

No arguments had convinced Malcolm that he shouldn't feel indebted: the strict Lieutenant might as well have been Shran, and in the end Archer had yielded, persuaded by the line of reasoning that this was Malcolm's chance to break with Harris for good.

During the past three months the responsibility, however, had weighed on Archer, heavier with every day that passed without news of his officer. Worry had silently gnawed at him, the torment finally lifting only when the Shuttlepod bringing Reed back had been safely in the launchbay again.

Now, though, as he studied the pensive expression on Phlox's face, concern began to creep through him again.

"Anything wrong?" he willed himself to ask.

Phlox stood up. "I don't quite know myself, Captain," he said, in an intrigued voice which didn't reveal much.

Archer straightened his shoulders, uncounsciously preparing to shoulder a heavy burden. "What do you mean?"

"The Lieutenant certainly hasn't taken good care of himself during the past three months. He's in poor physical condition," Phlox said, frowning.

"Yes," Archer agreed hoarsely. "He looks rather worn-down." That had been the first thing he had noticed, when Reed had appeared in the launchbay, and his heart had clenched; but he had schooled his features not to show it.

"He needs to regain the weight he's lost and replenish his system."

Archer narrowed his eyes. "Are you trying to tell me he's not fit to go back on duty?" He hoped, for Malcolm's sake, that it wasn't the case. Nothing would annoy the man more than being forced to rest.

Phlox made a quick downward grimace with his mouth, head tilted to one side. "Not necessarily. As long as he doesn't exert himself too much too soon, physically, I see no reason why he shouldn't be able to carry out his normal duties."

"Good," Archer breathed out in relief. "I think we can get Malcolm to agree to _that_."

"However," Phlox hurried to add, raising his eyebrows, "That is not the reason why I have asked you to come all the way here, Captain."

The knot in Archer's stomach tightened again.

"I think you should know that there is evidence of injuries on the Lieutenant's body."

Phlox paused, and Archer felt a surge of impatience. Let the man tell him everything in one go, for heaven's sake.

"What injuries, Doctor?" he prompted darkly.

Turning to his monitor, Phlox brought up some images. "It appears Mister Reed suffered a hairline fracture of the skull, here," he said touching the screen, where a three-dimentional image of Malcolm's skull became visible. A red line behind the left ear showed the spot. "It wasn't serious, and it has healed perfectly," he added. "In addition I found evidence also of a couple of cracked ribs." The image changed. "Also healed."

Archer frowned. "I'm sure Malcolm's mission wasn't exactly a stroll in the park," he said. "In that kind of _occupation_ – if we want to call it that – it seems to me a couple of cracked ribs are the least you can expect."

Even as he spoke he realised how callous the words sounded. It was his guilty conscience speaking. He wasn't sure, though, what Phlox was getting at. This sort of information was, strictly speaking, confidential. And the Denobulan wasn't one to break the doctor-patient confidentiality rule light-heartedly.

"That may well be," Phlox replied seriously. "What I find strange, however, is that the Lieutenant should seem to know nothing about it."

"What?" Archer grimaced. "Did you ask him?"

Shrugging, Phlox jerked his head back, chin down. "Naturally. When I enquired how he had suffered his injuries he looked at me with a frown of confusion; he was surprised about them. In the end he mumbled something vague like 'in the course of my mission'." Phlox turned from the screen and raised his very blue eyes on Archer. "He doesn't remember anything about them."

"That _is_ strange," Archer commented under his breath.

"Yes, and I thought you should know."

Archer felt his mouth go dry. "Have you assessed his mental condition?" he asked, belatedly realising it was a stupid question – if Phlox was willing to let Malcolm back on duty he must have.

"Yes," the Doctor indeed replied. "He seems to be fine."

"Could the head injury he suffered have anything to do with his amnesia?" Another obvious question; the consciencious physician would have considered that too.

"It could." There was a beat of silence. "On the other hand, the Lieutenant could have subconsciously wiped out memories that weren't pleasant," Phlox eventually suggested, with a very direct look that spoke plenty. "It is not unknown to happen. Or…"

"Or they could have been wiped for him," Archer finished grimly. He pursed his lips. Guilt, regret, worry and anger, most of it self-directed, warred in his chest. "And you still recommend that he should go back on duty?" he croaked out.

"I do, Captain. It will be good for him. Though I also recommend that we keep an eye on him."

Archer nodded. "Thank you, Doctor." As he left sickbay, he knew that a very heavy weight had suddenly dropped back on his shoulders.

* * *

Malcolm startled awake, prey to a choking feeling of anxiousness. He was cold. Darkness surrounded him and he didn't know where he was. Eyes vainly opened wide to try and scan the nothingness around him, he wrapped his arms around himself, forcefully tearing his attention away from his thumping heart and focussing it on his surroundings. It was then that he became aware of a much more reassuring sound: the low rumble of a warp engine. Memory was kind enough to shine briefly through the fogs of his brain, and he knew with instant relief that he was back on Enterprise.

Raising a hand to press two fingers over his eyes, Malcolm lay still, waiting for his pulse to slow down. He was trembling slightly, and it wasn't only out of cold. What a fool; no, worse, a coward. With a sudden surge of irritation he snapped out of his immobility and reached for the light. It was too bright, brutally hurting his eyes and making him blink before he ordered its glow lower. His quarters finally took form and reassuringly embraced him. Looking around, he winced at the sight of the clothing on the floor – fatigue was no excuse for sloppiness. Then, throwing his blanket aside, he sat up.

Talking of sloppiness: why had he been sleeping on a bed that was still made, covered just by a blanket? No wonder he was cold. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. Trip. He had been talking to Trip. He must have fallen asleep and his friend must have covered him.

Malcolm sighed, darting a glance at the clock as he stood up. Barely past ten-hundred. Bloody wonderful: like saying he had just fallen asleep. He shuffled to the bathroom and leaned on the sink, staring into the circled grey eyes of the man in the mirror, silently questioning him.

_What happened to you_?

The general feeling of anxiousness that had woken him still lingered. It was something he was not unused to but never particularly enjoyed. He knew whose child it was: the _unknown_; that blank which, like a mist – or a thick, view-blocking hedge – stopped him from seeing clear. One of the things his father had taught him – one of the few things for which he was grateful to the old man – was to use knowledge as a weapon against fear; it was a lesson he had learnt well. But now this weapon had been snatched out of his hand. For much as he tried, he could remember nothing about a fractured skull or cracked ribs. And fear had him in its grip.

His hand went automatically to the side of his head. He could feel nothing. Could it be true? Had he not dreamt of it perhaps? No, the image of Phlox, scanner in hand, eyes boring into him, was too detailed to be a dream.

_How have you suffered your injuries?_ the Doctor had asked him, covering his professional concern in a light voice. Malcolm had looked at him with a question mark on his face, so big that even a blind man would have seen it. As far as he was concerned, he hadn't suffered any bloody injuries. He was back in one piece.

Trip's voice echoed in his mind. _So you kept your promise, you came back safe and sound… _

His hesitant reply – 'I suppose so' – had raised the Engineer's suspicions, he was sure of it.

Malcolm jerked his eyes away from the wary ones staring back at him and opened the tap. He put his hands under the flow, watching the water slide over his wrists as he turned them up, relishing the coolness. He stayed like that for a long moment, willing to find the lost memories even though, surely, they couldn't be pleasant ones.

It wasn't normal for a man to forget breaking his head, or getting his ribs cracked. But why hadn't Phlox enquired further? Malcolm was quite sure the Denobulan hadn't been satisfied with his muttered reply. Of course not; who would? _I got injured in the course of the mission_ - You don't say. And yet the Doctor was letting him return to duty.

Anxiousness rose and expanded, choking him again, and Malcolm lowered his face, splashing cold water on it.

He'd be fine. He was back. Safe and sound. What mattered now, how he had suffered those injuries? He was once again the Armoury and Security Officer of this ship. And his _career_ as a black operative was definitely over.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

§ 4 §

"He doesn't remember gettin' those kinds of injuries?" Trip blurted out, his face shaped in an expression of total disbelief.

Archer pursed his lips, slowly shaking his head. He had summoned Trip and T'Pol to his ready room before the alpha shift began, to bring them up to date with Phlox's findings. His Second and Third in Command had a right to know. In fact, he needed them to help.

"It is possible that those memories were purged out of the Lieutenant's mind," T'Pol said. "Vulcans, for example, have a ritual for that." Her mouth twitched slightly as she added quietly to Archer, "As you know."

Archer saw Trip's brow take a sudden plunge. Apparently, even after getting as close as he had to T'Pol in past months, the Engineer still wasn't privy to what had happened on that mission he and T'Pol had gone on, to apprehend a fugitive on behalf of the Vulcan High Command. During it, T'Pol had remembered events that had happened during a previous mission, and which she had been made to forget through this Vulcan ritual she had told him about.

"I am not certain it is wise to have the Lieutenant return to duty before we ascertain what happened to him," T'Pol went on.

She didn't sound patronising, as she once might have; if anything Archer detected a hint of concern in her voice. He grimaced. "I would tend to agree with you, but Phlox thinks it be will all right, in fact good for him to resume his position on board. And I don't like to keep Malcolm off duty without any real evidence that he isn't fit for work."

Pushing off the bulkhead near the porthole, he began to pace, well aware that his two officers, who were standing side by side near the door, followed his every move with their eyes.

"Phlox says there is nothing wrong with him," he added, to stress his point.

"Of course there is somethin' wrong with him, Capt'n," Trip burst out, putting his hands on his waist. "It's not normal for a person not to remember crackin' his head."

"I know, Trip." Archer let out a long-suffering sigh. He bent under a bulkhead. "But Phlox says a person's subconscious can sometimes wipe out particularly unpleasant memories. He suggests that we allow him back on duty but keep an eye on him." Stopping, he turned to face his officers. "That's why I've called you here, and why I'm telling you all this. I need the help of you both."

Trip bit his lower lip, wincing. "You've got it, Capt'n. But I have to tell you, I don't like this. Seems like a sneaky thing to do, spyin' on a friend."

"I do not see any disgrace in discreetly supervising a friend for his own welfare," T'Pol commented, with a typical lift of her eyebrows. "It is only logical that we should observe the Lieutenant's behaviour, under the circumstances."

Archer shifted his gaze from one to the other. You could be sure to have a healthy disagreement between these two, whenever an issue arose. If Trip said white T'Pol would almost invariably think black, and vice versa. But that was exactly what he appreciated in his crew. Hearing the two sides of an argument helped him to see things more clearly.

"I'm with T'Pol," he said. "It's for Malcolm's own sake, as well as for the safety of the crew."

Just then the doorbell rang.

"Come," Archer called. The door opened to reveal the very person.

"Lieutenant Reed, reporting for duty, Sir."

Malcolm stepped in, exchanged glances and nods with Trip and T'Pol, and stood at attention.

"Malcolm," Archer greeted with a smile. "At ease." The man looked a little better than he had the night before, thanks to his uniform and recent hair trim; his face, however, still showed signs of tension and tiredness. "Have you had a good sleep?"

To his dismay Archer realised that his voice had betrayed his thoughts; he hadn't meant to sound as if it showed that the man hadn't. But of course there could only be one answer to that question.

"Yes, Captain. Thank you."

Reed shifted to parade rest and the grey gaze met his briefly, before darting straight ahead.

"Good." There was a pause. "That will be all, Commanders," Archer told Trip and T'Pol. "Dismissed."

Trip clasped a hand to Malcolm's arm and shot him a quick "I'll see ya later" before following T'Pol out of the door.

Archer resumed his slow pacing. He wasn't quite sure how to say what he wanted to say, and movement helped him think.

"I understand that you cannot give me a report of your mission, Lieutenant," he eventually said, turning to him. "And I don't expect you to." He studied his officer: though his face was impassive, he was sure his mind was working, trying to figure out where this might be going.

"Sir," Malcolm began, but Archer raised a hand to stop him.

"I won't lie to you," he said. "Even without the Doctor's report, it is quite obvious that you're back from a tough three months." He hadn't openly mentioned Phlox's findings, but he had no doubt Malcolm had picked up on the unspoken implications.

The Armoury Officer's mouth tightened, though he didn't comment.

There was no way around it, so Archer finally spit out, "You have a vital position on board, Lieutenant, and I want to make sure you are ready to resume your duties."

"I am, Captain," was the immediate reply, in a voice low and uncharacteristically expressive. "I'm fine."

Malcolm's eyes left that nondescript spot on the wall and met his, and his famous shields for a moment failed. A silent SOS, something along the lines of 'Please don't let me down. I want to get back to my former life and forget', flashed in them, and Archer was touched more than if the man had openly pleaded with him.

The emotion crossed Malcolm's face like a shadow – here one moment, gone the next – wiped out by a twitch of the mouth which set his features straight again, and Archer had little doubt the man was angry with himself for what he must be undoubtedly considering a moment of weakness. The grey eyes shifted once more straight ahead. Looking into them now was like gazing at very still and murky waters: not a ripple of anything disturbed their impassiveness.

Archer heaved a deep breath, trying to lift the weight that made his heart heavy. Whatever had happened to this man, he had his share of responsibility. He felt a sudden urge to know exactly what his mission had been, to be reassured that it hadn't been too traumatic; but he knew there was no way Malcolm would tell him.

"I know your idea of Captain is different from mine," he finally said with a bittersweet smile that was probably lost on the fixed gaze. "But I like to think that if you're ever really troubled about something, you'll trust your C.O. enough to confide in him."

Malcolm's brow creased slightly. "Sir…" He faltered; then found his voice again, and there was a surprising note of humour in it. "After four and a half years under your command, I'd probably resent serving under the kind of Captain I once thought you ought to be."

Archer couldn't hold back a soft chuckle, which earned him a quick and – he thought –amused look. "I'll take that as a compliment," he said. At least Malcolm seemed to have retained his capacity to use his dry wit.

"Indeed that's what it was meant as." Malcolm's gaze grew intense again. "I will be fine, Sir," he repeated meaningfully.

Archer bore into him with his gaze but got nothing more. That was all the confiding he'd get. Well, some things would never change. So, after heaving a deep breath, he said, "I'm sure you're eager to check out the Armoury." Adding, with a smile, "We'll try to manage for another day without you on the Bridge."

A sparkle gleamed in Malcolm's eyes, softening them. "Thank you, Captain," he said in his clipped accent.

"Dismissed."

Reed nodded and left. As soon as the door had closed behind him Archer's smile turned into a frown. He knew his decision had been influenced by the fact that he felt he had to make it up to the man; he just hoped he had done the right thing.

* * *

Opening the hatch to Engineering, Malcolm stepped inside, scanning the busy place in search of the 'master of the house'. Eyes turned to him and several crewmen nodded; a gesture that today, for the most part, was accompanied by welcoming words and smiles which made of it more than a polite greeting.

He'd been spending half his time thanking people. The crew seemed to have genuinely missed _him_, not only their Armoury Officer. But the warmth that came with that notion was spoilt by the new awareness that these people's regard was based on a partial truth: they only knew Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, the upright Officer, and ignored the dark side of the man. He wondered what the crew knew – or suspected – about his absence. Archer wouldn't have made a ship-wide announcement of his secret mission, but on a ship this small rumours were inevitable.

"Lieutenant," Rostov said, turning away from his console as soon as he saw him. "It's good to have you back, Sir."

"Thank you, Crewman," Malcolm replied for the umpteenth time. He took care, as always, not to let the repetitiveness of the answer make it sound less sincere; for he was indeed touched by this univocal display of affection.

"If you're looking for the Commander, you won't find him here," Rostov went on to inform him. "There has been a problem with the laundry system."

"I see," Malcolm said. "I'll return in a little while, then."

"If he comes back sooner I'll tell him you were looking for him, Sir."

"It's nothing urgent, Crewman. But thank you all the same."

Malcolm let himself out of Engineering and started along the corridor back to the Armoury. Re-taking charge of his department today had given him a deep-set feeling of peace and accomplishment. He was rooted once again, back in a place he knew inside and out, working with people he trusted. Three months in unknown territory always having to watch his back had been long and exhausting.

But enough thinking of something that was over and done with. It was high time he forgot about that part of his life or, if that was impossible, pushed it at least far to the back of his mind.

Müller came towards him the moment he stepped into the Armoury. His tall German SIC had looked particularly happy to have him back. Bernhard was a capable Officer; in fact, knowing that this man had been left in charge of the safety of the ship during his absence had been a comforting thought. But, to Müller's own admission, the weight of responsibility had been stressful, and he had been looking forward to his Chief's return.

"Here is the updated inventory you asked for, Sir," Müller said, handing him a padd.

Malcolm took it. Bernhard was as efficient and sharp as usual. "Thank you, Ensign. Have you and the crew kept up with target practice?"

"Yes, Sir. The Armoury complement twice a week; the rest of the crew twice a month. Every crewmember's scores have been recorded. And I've also held regular combat training sessions."

"You've looked after things well, Bernhard," Malcolm said with feeling. "I'll make sure Captain Archer hears about it."

"My duty, Sir," Müller replied. A full smile lit up his face and lively green eyes.

Ten minutes later, while he was busy at the main console, Malcolm heard a familiar drawl behind him.

"You rang?"

He turned. Trip was at the foot of the few steps that lead to the semi-elevated platform, a grin on his face.

"Rostov told me you came lookin' for me."

"I didn't mean for you to come all the way here," Malcolm said apologetically. "I would've come back in a little while."

"No problem." The grin widened into an impish smile. "I'll charge you extra for the house call, that's all."

Trip ran up the few steps and joined him.

"So, what's up?"

"It's the phase cannons," Malcolm said leaning back against the console. Crossing his arms over his chest he watched Trip seamlessly switch to professional mode. "It's been four months since their last overhaul, and I'd like a little help so we get the job done more quickly. It's not a good idea to remain with even one of them off-line for longer than strictly necessary."

Trip nodded in agreement. "Alright. I think I can spare a couple of engineers. When do you want to start?"

"I still have to inform the Captain," Malcolm said with a shrug. "But I wanted to know how many people I could count on, so I could give him a close-enough estimate of how long the job will take."

"Well, just give me a whistle when you're ready. But I wouldn't worry too much if I were you." Trip broke into another sunny smile. "We haven't used the cannons while you were away, so they oughtta be in good shape. No one came runnin' after us guns blazin'."

A shot of adrenaline made Malcolm freeze. Suddenly he was in a dark alley, in a different time and place. He'd been running, the only noises the sounds of his breathing and of footsteps echoing in the hollow air; his footsteps, and those of someone chasing him. But no… He frowned in confusion. _He_'d been the one chasing somebody…

Clenching his jaw against the disturbing images, Malcolm refocussed on blue and perplexed eyes. "Right," he sputtered, his voice coming out hoarse despite himself.

"You okay?"

The sudden drop in volume of Trip's tone was quite telling, and Malcolm averted his eyes. "Yes, fine."

He knew there wasn't much of a chance that the smile he had forced on his lips would fool his friend, but he was determined to deal with his problems alone. He'd told the Captain he was okay, and he _would_ be, damn it.

"Two engineers, then," Malcolm said, mustering the nerve to meet Trip's gaze again.

"Yup," Trip drawled.

Straightening his shoulders, Malcolm heaved a steadying breath. "Sorry I fell asleep on you last night," he added quietly, changing subject. At least these words sounded sincere, for indeed they were. "I was knackered, and..."

"Hey, no problem."

Trip was suddenly looking self-conscious. With a wince he went on, "I shouldn't have bugged you on your first night on board, when it was pretty obvious you needed to rest."

"No, I didn't mind. Really."

Not that he _had_ got a good rest, in the end. Any rest, really.

"Well, then," Malcolm sighed. "I'll get back to my targeting sensors." His evasive manoeuvre was quite obvious, but right now all he cared for was to escape Trip's piercing gaze.

Trip jerked his chin up. "Yeah. Just give a call when you've got the Capt'n's green light." With a last glance he finally turned and climbed down the steps.

Malcolm watched him walk to the hatch and leave, and drowned the nagging voice of his conscience, which was giving him hell for not letting his closest friend into his confidence.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

§ 5 §

He'd been on constant lookout. Proteus was an expert agent; and a dangerous man. A dangerous man – a man who knew too much – on the loose was not something the Section was particularly fond of. Proteus had disappeared, broken free without approval, and Malcolm had been sent after him. His mission – or his punishment for wanting out too, he was quite certain of it – had been to bring back, dead or alive, this man who had once been a friend of sorts.

Proteus had a real knack for disguises, hence his alias, from the Greek divinity who could take on any form. Malcolm had known he'd have to watch his back very carefully, that their former 'friendship', if you could call it that, would be no protection. He'd slept little and badly in those three months, afraid to let his guard down. He supposed it would take him a while to reassure his subconscious that he could now actually go to sleep without fearing he'll never wake up again.

"So, how have you been?"

Malcolm blinked. Across the table, Hoshi was looking at him, her smile slowly falling away. Right. They were having dinner in the Mess hall. Malcolm realised his eyes had gone icy hard, giving him that harsh expression he knew so well for having gazed at his black ops version in the mirror so many times, and let his features mellow, annoyed with himself.

"The Captain told me it was 'quite obvious I'd had a tough three months'," he replied with a wry smile. His eyebrows shot up. "I'm just glad I am back to my normal life," he added tersely and almost to himself.

For a long moment they were silent, as he made patterns with his food, moving it around the plate. He wasn't very hungry. Phlox had told him he should eat proper meals to try and put on the weight he'd lost, but there was no commanding one's appetite.

Hoshi cleared her throat. "I think you're giving those ravioli motion sickness."

Her deadpan tone made the words sound really quite funny. Malcolm's mood lifted. Flashing her a genuinely amused smile, he speared a ravioli and raised the fork, letting it hover in front of his mouth for a moment before finally giving in to necessity. He'd just have to consider eating one more of his duties, that's all.

"How did you find the Armoury?" Hoshi asked.

"In great shape. No complaints." Malcolm speared another ravioli. "With the Captain's permission tomorrow I'll start the cannons' overhaul."

"Ah." Hoshi acknowledged.

There was an awkwardness between them which hadn't been there since their first year in space. Malcolm wondered why. It must be him; he had to get used to life on board again.

"I heard you had fun on that planet, with that lost civilization," he said after swallowing his morsel, wanting to fill the silence that had once again fallen.

Hoshi's face finally lit up. "Oh, you should have been there." She lowered her fork to her plate, and her gaze got a faraway look. "That place was absolutely amazing. Buildings, statues, inscriptions…. Trip took hundreds of pictures."

Malcolm felt his heart constrict. What would he have been doing while his friends were busy exploring that lost paradise? Standing at the corner of that dirty side street, dog tired and drenched to the bone from rain? Or perhaps mingling in the unpleasant crowd of that market place, surrounded by thousands of people yet so terribly alone? So terribly alone. He had never felt so alone as in the past three months.

"Are you okay?"

He'd done it again. "Absolutely." Malcolm forced a smile on his lips. "That must have been interesting." Flicking his eyes away, he added wistfully, "I would have loved to be there. I was--"

What in the bloody hell was wrong with him? He closed his mouth and ventured a look across the table.

"You were what?" Hoshi asked gently, her eyes showing both curiosity and concern.

All of a sudden it was too much to keep inside. He had to let some of it out, so that the ache in his chest could subside.

"It was a lonesome three months," Malcolm said, eyes carefully averted. "I… missed the exploring."

He bit his lip. Sure. A lonesome _three months_. Missed the _exploring_. Why was it so difficult to say that _he_ had been lonesome, that he had missed _the crew_, his friends? But no doubt this friend was reading through him.

"It must have been hard," Hoshi said quietly.

Malcolm watched empathy dawn on her face, and a blush crept up his neck. But before he could say anything, Archer's voice crackled through the comm. system.

"Senior staff to the Bridge."

They exchanged a puzzled look; then both rose from their seats and hurried silently towards the doors.

* * *

"They are definitely in hailing range, Sir."

Archer shot his Communication Officer an acknowledging glance; then turned to T'Pol. "Any match in the Vulcan database?"

"No."

"They are armed to the teeth, Captain," Malcolm commented from the other side of the Bridge. Just his luck, running into mysterious aliens on his first day back on duty.

Hoshi pressed on her ear piece. "Still no reply, Sir."

"Keep hailing them, Hoshi."

They all sat at their stations in silence, tension hanging in the air. How different things were from that first year – Malcolm mused – when expectation would have been hanging in the air.

"No answer, Captain," Hoshi said a few minutes later.

"They are on an intercept course," Mayweather announced. "Twelve minutes away, at our current speeds."

"On screen," Archer ordered, sitting on the edge of his chair, hands rubbing down his legs.

All eyes turned to the image of the sleek vessel that had appeared on the viewscreen. Slightly smaller than Enterprise, it had an elongated if compact shape which gave it the threatening look of a combat ship. Several weapons ports could be seen on the dark hull.

"Eight minutes," Mayweather said.

Archer narrowed his eyes. "Put the ship on alert, Malcolm, and polarise the hull plating. We don't want to take any chances."

Malcolm nodded in acknowledgment of his orders. Yes. He couldn't but agree: they'd take no chances. Not like in the years when they had thought that an unidentified alien ship could only mean a friendly first contact.

No bloody chances.

He had wanted to take no chances. He'd wanted to come out of it alive, return to Enterprise and resume his old life. And he'd done it, by…

"Lieutenant, the hull plating."

The use of his rank and the tone of Archer's voice made the order a lot sharper. Malcolm hurried to obey, meeting the Captain's piercing gaze only briefly before looking at his instruments to escape it. Damn it, his mind didn't want to stop wandering.

"Keep hailing them, Hoshi," Archer said again.

By the sound of it Malcolm knew the man was still looking his way, but he didn't have the heart to look up.

A few minutes later it was quite clear the people aboard that ship had no intention of speaking to them.

"Does this remind you of anything?" Archer commented deadpan, obviously referring to an incident at the beginning of their mission, when mysterious aliens who had refused to speak to them had fired on Enterprise for no reason.

The last word had hardly died away when Malcolm's instruments registered a surge of energy. "They're charging weapons," he warned.

A second later Enterprise rocked.

"Fire a warning shot across their hull, Lieutenant," Archer ordered darkly.

Malcolm nodded.

A warning shot. Did these blasted aliens even deserve a warning shot?

A lot of good that had done. Proteus had ignored his warning shot and responded fully intentioned to kill, forcing him to take cover. "Get away, Kite, while you still can," the man had shouted. "I'm not going back and I'll kill you if I need to." He hadn't – got away – of course, and…

"I said across the hull, Lieutenant!"

Malcolm refocused on the cold irritation painted on Archer's face. But he had no time to dwell on it for the ship rocked once again, forcing him to hold on to his console.

"Evasive manoeuvres," Archer barked. "Keep hailing them, Hoshi."

Malcolm stared at the viewscreen, where the damage his _warning _shot had inflicted to the alien vessel was in full view. Somehow he'd managed to narrowly miss the warp core, and now the ship looked more determined than ever to blow them to smithereens.

Yellow beams zapped out of their enemy's weapons ports, hitting Enterprise with a vengeance.

"Hull plating is down to sixty percent," T'Pol announced in her usual calm tone of voice, which at times like these sounded even more unnatural.

Archer turned to tactical, fixing eloquent green eyes on his Armoury Officer. Malcolm managed to hold them. "Lieutenant, take out their _weapons_," the Captain said, stressing the last word as if he were talking to someone hard of hearing – or short of wit.

Cursing inwardly, Malcolm nodded; but when he checked his instruments he looked up sharply again. "Targeting sensors have gone out of alignment, Sir," he croaked out. How the hell could that be possible? He had fine-tuned them not long before.

"Then do it the old way," Archer ordered tautly as Enterprise rocked yet another time.

"Aye, Sir."

"Capt'n we're takin' damage down here," Trip's urgent voice echoed, floating out of the comm. system.

"Hold on, Trip."

Malcolm tightened his lips, feeling the eyes of all the Bridge crew on him. Mayweather was doing a great job of trying to keep them out of their enemy's line of fire, but that didn't make aiming manually very easy.

"I'll need about ten seconds, Ensign," he told Travis, knowing he didn't need to say any more.

"Understood."

"Now," Malcolm urged. Enterprise steadied, giving him a chance to aim. He hadn't done this in so long... Mentally crossing his fingers, Malcolm pressed the fire button. The cannons responded obediently; explosions rocked the alien vessel.

"Their weapons are disabled," he reported, relief spreading instantly through him.

A moment later the ship had gone to warp, disappearing in a flash of light.

Silence fell on the Bridge. Archer stared at the view screen for one moment longer; then rose from his chair and started towards his ready room. "Mr. Reed," he said quietly, without sparing him a look.

Malcolm tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone completely dry. Getting to his feet, he numbly followed his Commanding Officer.

Standing at attention just inside the door of the Captain's office, Malcolm couldn't see Archer's expression, as the man stood gazing out of the porthole with his back to him, yet he was still painfully aware of the tension that exuded from him. The waiting was unbearable, seemingly endless. Finally Archer turned to face him, and Malcolm felt obliged to meet his eyes. They were strangely conflicted.

"What happened?" Archer asked. His tone was restrained.

Malcolm replied in a voice that was surprisingly steady, even to his own ears. "The targeting sensors got misaligned, Sir," he said. "I didn't expect it, for I had just tuned them, and in the heat of the moment didn't realise they'd gone off."

There was a beat of silence.

"You nearly destroyed that ship, Lieutenant. If you'd hit their warp core..."

_So what? The bloody bastards had looked for it, hadn't they?_

Malcolm clenched his jaw. Who was that, speaking in his brain? Not Lieutenant Reed. Not the principled Officer. He pushed the voice away, horrified. He knew full well to whom it belonged: to the man he had thought he'd left behind, the man he wanted to have nothing to do with any more.

"I am sorry, Captain," he said, daring to look at the man again. Archer was clearly trying to fathom him, and looked quite torn.

"You were slow to react and not as sharp as I'm used to seeing you, Malcolm," he said perplexedly.

The use of his given name suddenly set an informal tone to the conversation which Malcolm didn't really welcome. It touched him that the Captain was not lashing out at him as he had half expected; that he was trying to understand rather than lay blame; but the Lieutenant could always hide behind form, could stand at a reassuring distance, a distance informality now threatened to breach. And what was he going to tell him? The man was right.

"It won't happen again, Sir," he said, heart clenching.

How could he say that? How could he be sure that he'd stay focused, the next time he needed to be? That he wouldn't let the other man take over? But no, he wouldn't. He must not. Bloody hell, he was going to put the past three months out of his mind once and for all; he would be his old self again. He almost winced, knowing his eyes were letting some of his inner turmoil through; but there was little he could do, other than avert his gaze again.

Archer heaved a deep breath and started pacing. It was another long moment before he spoke again.

"I'll be honest with you, Malcolm," he eventually said. "I sympathise with you for what you obviously went through, but I can't let it influence me. My first concern is for the safety of this crew."

"As is mine, Captain," Malcolm said in a deep voice.

The last thing he wanted was to hurt this crew. But he wouldn't. He had just got back, hadn't slept and was still a bit scrambled. Today was not going to set a standard. He knew that.

"Sir," he added in a low voice where emotion rang clear. "I may not feel comfortable to _confide_ in you, but if I weren't confident that I can defend this ship and her crew I would definitely tell you. You have my word."

Archer's green eyes narrowed as they met his. "I count on it, Lieutenant," he said, returning to the formality of rank. "But I must warn you: a second chance to prove that you're fit for the job is all you'll get. Dismissed."

It was more than he had expected, and he wouldn't let Archer down. He'd be fine.

"Thank you, Captain," Malcolm murmured gratefully; then, with a last nod, he turned and left.

* * *

A couple of hours later Archer's feet had taken him to sickbay.

"Captain," Phlox greeted, appearing from behind a partition. "What can I do for you?"

Archer's heavy heart made his face twist in a lopsided smirk. "It's about Malcolm."

"Yes?" the Denobulan prompted him.

"Look, Doc," Archer said straightforwardly. "I'm not so sure he's fit for duty. Before, with those aliens, he didn't realise the targeting sensors weren't aligned and almost blew their ship out of the sky."

Phlox smiled, which was the last thing Archer had expected.

"Yes, the Lieutenant told me," he said.

Archer's eyebrows shot up. "Malcolm? He came here?" This was a surprise. Malcolm would keep away from sickbay, unless he was nearly dying.

"I called him to get his allergy shot. He was overdue. I sensed something was on his mind and for once was able to pry it from him." Turning once more very serious, Phlox added, "Believe me Captain, Mr Reed is well aware that he was... not up to par today. I checked him again and found him simply in dire need of rest. He told me he didn't get much last night." He shrugged. "That's all that was wrong with him."

"Why the hell didn't he say so?" Archer burst out. "I would have let him take another day off." Phlox looked at him as if things were clear, and he was being obtuse.

"Because he needs to resume his normal life, Captain," he said. "Believe me, it's the best thing for him right now."

Archer frowned. "So you still think he's fit for duty? That we just need to keep an eye on him?"

"Absolutely." Phlox broke into a moderate smile. "The sooner he gets back into his former rhythm of life the sooner he'll recover. Even his lost memories."

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

§ 6 §

Kite. He'd hated that nickname.

Malcolm's right hand flew out and landed a couple of fast punches on the punching bag. It swung and he sidestepped it nimbly, ready to deliver another combination.

He could remember exactly the first time Proteus had called him that: when the man had learnt that Malcolm wanted his life to be in Starfleet, not the Section; that he was going to apply for a position on Earth's first Warp 5 vessel.

_You want to soar and fly away, huh? But Harris won't like that, you'll never break free. You'll be like a kite: always a string attached. _Proteus had laughed out loud, a coarse, mocking sound that had been way too loud in the small room they had shared. _Kite, that's a good one! That's what I'll call you from now on. _Malcolm had fumed in silence, kept his feelings well under lock.

He had misplaced his trust; had thought he could confide in that man with whom he had shared dangers and discomforts. After all, they had trusted each other with more than confidences: they had trusted each other with their lives. He had thought that Proteus would understand his decision, his dream. He should have known better. Well, that'd teach him, confiding in so-called _friends_. But, in retrospect, perhaps Proteus had understood all too well, and resented him for having a choice, a way out.

Clenching his jaw, Malcolm flung himself against the bag, venting on it the frustration that his memories, and his poor performance on the Bridge, had built up within him.

_So they sent _you_, to find me. Well, it's just as I had told you, Kite: how could you think they'd let you soar away? It's not so easy to cut that string... You're good, and they used you to get to me. Take my advice, though: get away while you still can. Because no matter what, I'll kill you if I have to. I have no illusions, my friend: my life will be worth less than nothing if you bring me back..._

_My friend_... The word, as he understood it now, wouldn't apply to Proteus any more, but in his Section days the agent had come as close to a friend as he had imagined one would. Those bits of confidences they had once shared had doomed the man: Malcolm had had a fairly good idea where he could find him. That's why Harris had called _Kite_. And in the end he – Proteus – had been the one left on the pavement.

Malcolm felt stinging behind his eyes, and renewed his vicious punching.

He hadn't wanted that mission: _that_ mission in particular. He could sympathise with someone who wanted out of the Section. It had felt wrong to go after Proteus. But Harris had been clever. He had promised him this would be the last time, and Malcolm had accepted before knowing exactly what he was expected to do. And once he'd been told... Well, he had silenced his conscience. He'd cut that string and be finished with it. He'd bring back the bloody man and would no longer be attached; he'd set the kite free, it – he – would finally soar away.

But he had been determined to bring Proteus back _alive_. He hadn't wanted it to end the way it had, with the man dead at his feet. He valued life, had chosen his profession to protect lives, not cut them short. And instead he had caused the death of someone who, like himself, had wanted to close the door on a murky past… Malcolm had knelt down by the fallen defector feeling like an unscrupulous bastard, a bloody fraud, a double-faced hypocrite.

With a low growl, Malcolm delivered another series of fast and angry punches.

He had set his pistol to stun. Proteus had been a dangerous man and, in a contorted way, a shrewd one too. When the agent had realised he was cornered, with no way out, he had chosen another way to make his escape. _Alright I surrender_, he had shouted, coming out of his hiding, hands over his head; and…

Malcolm scrunched his eyes shut, as much against the memories as against the sweat trickling down his brow. He let his hands fly out blindly to the swinging target.

There had been no 'dead or alive' for Proteus. Only 'dead or free'. And Proteus had been right, what were the chances that the man would have been left alive, once Malcolm had brought him back? The agent had written his death warrant the moment he had disappeared without approval.

He should have never accepted that job.

Malcolm's legs almost gave out under him, and he found himself hugging the bag, his breathing haggard. Bloody hell, he was in such pitiful shape. Good thing no one was around to see him.

"That's not gonna help ya put on weight, I reckon."

_Right_.

Malcolm straightened, willing his body to show strength he did not feel as he turned to face Trip.

"Hopefully it will do something towards getting me back in shape," he panted, his voice coming out low and flat. He passed an arm across his brow, to stop a few rivulets of perspiration.

Trip tossed him a towel. "Take it easy, Malcolm," he said, a bit too seriously for the man.

Malcolm felt his features harden, and hid them in the towel. What was Trip's business, treating him like a bloody child? What did the man know about the loneliness, the darkness, the pain? Hell, if Trip hadn't _fraternised_ with T'Pol in the first place the Terra Prime people wouldn't have hatched that mad plan to conceive their hybrid child; he, Malcolm, wouldn't have had to get once again in touch with Harris; and Harris wouldn't have had any leverage to send him after Proteus.

"I'm fine," he muttered irritably into the towel.

"You don't look it."

Jerking his face up, Malcolm shot Trip a narrowed-eyed look. "You'll just have to take my word for it, then."

His icy gaze met one where, for all he tried, Malcolm could only find friendly concern. It destabilised him, and he buried his face in the towel again, feeling torn by forces that pulled him in opposite directions. He yearned to step back into the shoes of the Lieutenant who had left Enterprise three months before, go back to being Trip's friend; he yearned for the camaraderie they had shared back then. But there was still that other man inside him, who didn't want to leave him alone. If he dropped his shields now he knew he'd not be able to keep things inside: it would all spill out, the bitterness, the pain, the ugliness. Most of all the ugliness: Trip would see that side of him, and he didn't want that.

No, he must not. Trip must not know what he had done, or why. No one must know about agent Kite. Let them only know the honourable Lieutenant Reed. Not to mention that Trip was his superior officer, and if he got a glimpse of his muddled feelings might even put him off duty. The man would not believe that he'd be fine. Then there was also the question of those injuries Malcolm could not remember getting. He didn't want to discuss that with anyone. Not before he had figured out himself what had happened.

Malcolm winced. He felt like a man with a double nature, unworthy of anyone's friendship. Would Trip still be his friend if he knew him the way he knew himself? Perhaps he had been born to be alone; indeed, that seemed to be his curse. Even now, among people he trusted, he felt utterly alone. No one could really, intimately know him. He wouldn't – no, he couldn't let them.

Malcolm lifted his head and refocused on Trip, who seemed to be waiting for the friend in front of him to shed a strange and horrible disguise and show his normal self. With a clenching in his chest he realised he'd been rather unfair to the man: it wasn't Trip's fault if those Terra Prime criminals had picked him and T'Pol to further their ends; or if the Captain had wanted him to ask for Harris's help. Also, if he was honest with himself, Trip had had more than his share of loneliness and pain.

"I got carried away without realising it," Malcolm mumbled regretfully, avoiding those clear, blue eyes.

Silence stretched for a beat more.

"Well, that's just like ya," Trip finally drawled.

Malcolm heard a smile in the voice, and dared a glance. Trip had a way of piercing his darkness with a ray from his easy-going nature. The man didn't need many words; it was just the way he was around people. Bless him.

"I know," Malcolm said, daring a small smile himself. He heaved a deep breath. "No one is perfect."

He watched Trip relax in a soft chuckle. If the man had been aware of his troubled thoughts – which Malcolm had little doubt he had – he was doing a good job of not showing it.

"So… what are your plans for tonight – except for wearin' yourself out?" Trip threw over his shoulder, tongue-in-cheek, as he walked over to one of the treadmills.

Malcolm bit his lip, choking back the answer that threatened to escape. _He must not, he must not._ _No: no chat and no beer_.

"A hot shower and long sleep," he said, trying to sound convinced.

"Ah, well, too bad." Trip darted him a look; then started the machine and settled into a light jog. "I was sort of lookin' forward to sharin' a few beers."

"Thanks, but not tonight, Trip."

For a moment only the pound of Trip's feet could be heard.

"How are the repairs going?" Malcolm eventually asked, changing subject. He couldn't keep self-recrimination from his voice: he still hadn't figured out how the targeting sensors could have gone out of alignment so soon after he had tuned them.

"Gettin' there. We were lucky no one got hurt."

"Yes." That was all he would have needed, for someone to get hurt because of his inability to keep a bloody set of sensors aligned. Malcolm lowered his eyes, suddenly aware that he was wringing the towel in his hands. He relaxed his grip.

"So, I hear you got the okay from the Capt'n for the cannons' overhaul," Trip said, his voice shaking with the running. "You still wanna borrow a couple of my guys?"

"If you can spare them..."

Trip raised his eyebrows. "Armoury, oh-eight-hundred, Rostov and Lee?"

"Thanks," Malcolm muttered, letting his mouth curve up. The blue eyes bore into him, and tension immediately gripped him again. Damn if this wasn't all a sort of game. Tiptoeing around him. Avoiding the real issues. "I'd better take that shower," he said abruptly, breaking eye contact. "Good night."

"Sleep tight."

Malcolm turned and left. As a fast escape it was a pretty obvious one. And even after the doors had closed behind him he could still feel Trip's gaze on his back.

* * *

Trip watched Malcolm leave and slapped a hand on the command, stopping the belt. He slid off it and stood there in the silent and empty gym, unhappy with himself. Was this what the Captain and T'Pol called 'keeping an eye on a friend'? Well, he called it being an untruthful SOB. He shouldn't have pretended not to see Malcolm's trouble. It had been painfully obvious. Alright, he hadn't really ignored it, he amended with a grimace. And if he had pressed the man to talk he'd probably achieved the opposite effect; but still, he should have... Damn it! Should have _what_? Between Malcolm being the stubborn tight-lipped man he was, and Jon wanting him to watch over him, he was totally confused as to what he was to do.

Passing a hand through his hair, he considered going to Jon. A part of him rebelled at the idea, it felt like outright _spying_; but he hadn't liked what he had seen. The first night it could be argued that Malcolm was exhausted, but tonight… Hell, this had been his first day back on duty, the man should have been in a much different mood. He had refused his invitation to spend the evening together, and that was not how it had been between them before his damn mission.

_Alright, then: what are you gonna do about it? – _an insistent little voice nagged _– __Either talk to Jon or talk to Malcolm, but don't just be standin' there doing nothin'._

He doubted Malcolm would even let him in, after what he had seen. That left only one option really. With a sigh, Trip shuffled to the door, wondering how he could manage to speak to Jon without feeling totally rotten about it.

* * *

The man checked left and right: the coast was clear. He let himself out and started walking along the silent corridor, keeping close to the wall, ears peeled in case he heard someone coming. But he hadn't much reason to worry: at oh-two-forty-five you could be pretty sure most of the crew were fast asleep in their quarters, and those up would be at their posts.

He had a mission to carry out. It was important. He must not fail – the message was running through his mind like a broken record. He shut it off and rehearsed in his mind what he was going to do, in detail. It was vital that he work fast.

Stopping just outside the hatch that led to the higher level of the Armoury, he took out his scanner and checked for biosigns. Two people. Just as he had expected. Well, they were about to take a nice little nap. Crouching, he opened the hatch and threw the vaporiser inside. It fell with a clunk, echoed a moment later by thuds alerting him to the fact that the drug had worked, and the two men were out. In a few hours no trace would be left in the crewmen's blood, and in a few minutes the substance would disperse enough for him to breathe the air without danger; but why waste even a few minutes? Placing a mask over his nose and mouth, the man pushed the door open and slipped inside.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

§ 7 §

"You appear to have had insufficient rest, Captain," T'Pol commented, letting a spoon full of Plomek soup hover in front of her mouth.

Archer couldn't help breaking into a smile, which undoubtedly left his Second in Command wondering about his illogical nature. You could trust T'Pol to be direct: and that's exactly why he had asked her to join him for breakfast. After Trip's visit the night before, he was once again doubting his decision, and thought an unemotional opinion would help him clear his mind.

"That might be because I was awake half the night," he said, tongue-in cheek. Of course she took the statement at face value.

"It seems very likely. Is something on your mind?"

Well, at least during these years of living in close quarters with a ship of Humans she had acquired a terminology that didn't make her sound quite so alien any more.

"It would be advisable for you to seek the Doctor's assistance, when you are unable to obtain your repose."

Most of the time.

"Trip came to me, last night," Archer sighed, raising the carafe of juice towards her.

"No, thank you," T'Pol replied to his silent enquiry. "What did the Commander want?"

"He's worried about Malcolm. He says last night in the gym Malcolm was pummelling the punching bag like a madman, and when he tried to talk to him the man shut him out."

T'Pol raised her eyebrows. "Did the Commander find that unusual, for Lieutenant Reed?"

That was twice in a row she had avoided using Trip's name. Archer heaved another sigh, this one inward. T'Pol and Trip had nearly become a family, and here she was, talking of him as if he were no different from any other other colleague. Although maybe that's what he was to her, now. Concentrate – Archer admonished himself. Right now, the problem at hand was Malcolm.

"He told me Malcolm was more… _vehement_ and tight-lipped than usual. And that he seemed troubled." Archer bit his lip. "T'Pol, you saw Malcolm on the Bridge yesterday. He wasn't the Lieutenant Reed we are used to."

The Vulcan lowered her spoon and raised deep eyes on him.

"Captain, I believe the Lieutenant is slightly… disoriented. I have observed him, and my opinion is that it will take him a few days to get re-adjusted to life on board."

"But do you think he's capable of carrying out his job?" Archer asked bluntly. That remained the core of the question. "He nearly destroyed that alien ship. And now, after what Trip has told me…"

"The targeting sensors are known to go abruptly out of alignment."

Archer smirked unconvincedly. "T'Pol, when was the last time Malcolm hit a ship with a _warning shot_?"

The Science Officer's head tilted gracefully to one side.

"I see your point. On the other hand, the Lieutenant compensated by targeting manually in a highly professional and efficient manner." After a moment she added, "What happened on the Bridge yesterday is not enough to warrant taking Mr. Reed off duty. If you are worried that he might not be completely reliable, you could consider placing Ensign Müller in temporary command of the Armoury, untill we have more evidence at our disposal to give an objective evaluation."

"That would be just as bad, if not worse, for Malcolm's pride," Archer groaned, wincing.

Picking up her spoon again, T'Pol regarded him calmly. "Pride is not going to keep the ship safe," she commented in her matter-of-fact voice.

They ate in silence for a moment.

Why was it so difficult to make a decision? Archer tried to list the _evidence at his disposal_ in his mind. Number one: he felt guilty for having placed Malcolm in Harris's debt in the first place. Number two: Phlox had told him the man didn't remember getting injured. Number three: Malcolm had seemed slightly absent on the Bridge. Number four: he had nearly destroyed a ship because he had not noticed the sensors were misaligned. Number five: right after, he had displayed his usual excellent skills. Number six: Phlox insisted Malcolm ought to be on duty for his own good. Number seven: Trip seemed to think he was troubled. Number eight: Trip's opinion might be influenced by the fact that he must know – though he had never openly spoken to him about it – that Malcolm's mission had been a consequence of the Terra Prime affair.

So, where did all that leave him?

"Captain," T'Pol said, interrupting his thoughts. "Except for a slight delay in bringing the shields online, I can find nothing inappropriate in the Lieutenant's behaviour."

Archer refocused on her large and – in their unique way – communicative eyes. He frowned. "That doesn't necessarily mean he's ok."

"No. But since you have agreed with the Doctor that he is fit for duty it would be illogical to take him off duty without a valid reason."

Logical, illogical… Hadn't T'Pol yet learnt that Humans had also something called "instinct"? Archer had taken Phlox's advice but had a damn strong instict that Malcolm was not at all _fine_. He sighed. As a matter of fact, though, he had summoned T'Pol to his mess just so that he could hear the voice of reason.

"All right," he said, with a lopsided smirk. "But let's continue to keep an eye on him."

* * *

"Tucker to Reed."

Malcolm went over to the comm. link and opened the channel. "Go ahead."

"Morning. Got your extra helpers?" Trip's jovial voice greeted him.

"Yes, Commander, thank you. Rostov and Lee are already at work." Malcolm cast a glance towards the open hatch leading to the bay that housed the port forward cannon. "By early afternoon we ought to be able to test the cannon."

"Great. Let me know if I can be of any help."

"Will do."

Malcolm ended the communication and heaved a deep breath. Just for a change he had slept badly and woken up far from well-rested. He was used to that by now, but he had so looked forward to being back on Enterprise and able to forget the constant tension of the past three months, and it wasn't happening. _Give yourself time_ – he told himself.

"Lieutenant, would you take a look at this circuit board?"

Rostov was emerging from the cannon bay, and Malcolm pushed off the wall.

"What's up?"

"It's strange. It looks like this component was recently replaced."

Taking the board from Rostov's hands, Malcolm studied it. "Well, maybe it was. What's so strange about that?"

"I thought the cannons hadn't had an overhaul in months."

Malcolm shrugged. "It's possible Müller had to do some repairs while I was away." He narrowed his eyes in thought. "Bernhard is doing target practice right now; I don't want to interrupt him." Touching the component, he tested its stability. "It seems to be firmly in place. Have you scanned the board?"

"Yes, Sir. It checks out ok."

"Right, then." Malcolm gave the board back to Rostov. "I will start disassembling the multiphasic emitter. Let's aim at starting to put the whole thing back together in two hours' time."

"Aye, Sir."

Rostov turned, and Malcolm followed him into the cannon bay, where Lee and one of his own men were also at work.

"How's it proceeding?" he asked, looking around at the pieces of cannon that had been taken apart.

"Well, Sir," Lopez replied for himself and Lee. "Everything seems to be in good order for the moment. No surprises."

_No surprises_. That was good. Though one could never tell when something might go awry.

Nodding in acknowledgment, Malcolm prepared to work on the emitter. First he had to get to it, though. He looked for the tool box.

The cannon might have no surprises in store for them, but Proteus had truly given him one. Damn, but he had. He had come out with his hands over his head, phase pistol still in one, and Malcolm could almost feel again the strange gut feeling he had experienced. This is too easy - he had thought.

_All right, you have outsmarted me, Kite_ – Proteus had shouted. _I know when it's time to admit defeat._ There had been an unreadable grin on his face; it had put Malcolm on the alert but not enough, in the light of what had happened afterwards. Malcolm had refused to be lured out into the open, knowing better than to offer the man a target. Phase pistol pointed steadily, he had told Proteus to throw his weapon to the ground; but the defector had ignored the request and said instead, _You do know what they'll do to me when you bring me back, don't you? I'm as good as dead. You might not want to kill me, but my blood will be on your conscience all the same. _And that's when Malcolm had uttered those bloody words, those shameful, despicable, bloody words which were not worthy of the man who served on Enterprise. _My mission is to bring you back_ – he had told him._ What happens to you after is none of my business._

It had been a damn lie; words he'd thrown out to flaunt determination and hide his inner conflict… or at least he thought so, for the memory of what had happened right next overwhelmed and cancelled everything else: Proteus had pointed the pistol at his temple and…

A muttered curse escaped Malcolm's lips and he blinked out of his reverie, watching blood starting to seep through a cut on his left palm.

"Lieutenant?" Rostov enquired from a few steps away.

"It's nothing, just a small cut. I wasn't careful." Malcolm forced a reassuring smile on his lips. "I'll fetch a plaster and be right back."

A few, heavier curses exploded in the secret of his mind. If he didn't pay attention to his job, pretty soon he'd feel obliged to go to Archer and admit that he was _not_ all that fine.

And that was the last thing he wanted.

* * *

"All set to blow a _lovely_ hole in a _bloody_ asteroid?"

Sitting down at Malcolm's table, Trip noticed with pleasure that his friend seemed to have a healthy appetite today: Malcolm was digging into his food as if he hadn't eaten in a week. Maybe he'd been too hasty in bringing his concerns to Archer the night before.

"Almost," Malcolm replied. "Just need to tighten the last screws."

His grey gaze – hell, his whole person – was finally alive with positive energy. Trip smiled.

"What?" Malcolm wondered, pausing and tilting his head in puzzlement.

"Nothin'. It's just good to see you're havin' fun."

Malcolm's eyes darted away in that way of his, before returning on Trip with a smile in them. And that, as far as Trip was concerned, was a helluva great sight.

"Trip, look," Malcolm said in quiet unease. "Sorry about… you know… last night..."

"Last night? What about it?" Trip joked. He speared two potatoes and shoved them into his mouth with gusto. "Ah, forget it. We all have bad days," he mumbled around them. Noticing a fairly large plaster across Malcolm's palm, he frowned. "What did you do to your hand?"

"Oh, that – it's just a scratch." Malcolm shrugged. "I was clumsy with a screwdriver."

His expression veiled, and for a moment Trip thought he was going to say something; but the man's reticence won in the end and he busied himself with his meal again. Well - Trip mused - this was still an improvement from the night before. Malcolm was slowly finding himself again.

"Lieutenant."

They both looked up to see Crewman Lopez standing at a discreet distance.

"Yes?"

Lopez nodded to his superior officers. "I'm sorry to interrupt your meals, Sirs." Addressing Malcolm he said, "You asked to be informed when we had finished with the last re-assembling."

"Thank you, Crewman." Malcolm's mouth twisted in an expression of approval. "That was quite fast."

"We don't want the Engineering staff to have enough time to miss Rostov and Lee," Lopez quipped.

Trip chuckled. "Ah, that's real thoughtful of you."

Malcolm wiped his mouth and rose. "I will inform the Captain that we're just about ready for our little test."

"Hey! Isn't the Chief Engineer entitled to a peaceful lunch break?" Trip complained. He had just sat down, for heaven's sake.

Malcolm shot him a meaningful glance. "The sooner we test the cannon, the better, Commander. I don't like it when weapons aren't fully operational, and we still have two cannons to overhaul."

"Alright, alright," Trip conceded with a sigh. "Go find yourself a suitable target, Lieutenant." He watched Malcolm stride out of the mess hall, his meal forgotten, and shook his head, but in contentment. It was good to see his friend do his job with the intensity he had got them accustomed to.

Forty minutes later Enterprise was skimming along the edge of a large asteroid field.

"Mr. Reed, I believe we have provided you with ample choice," Archer's voice, floating from the comm. link, said with a touch of humour.

"Indeed, Sir."

Down in the Armoury, Malcolm studied the readings on his console. He'd choose a rather small target, just to make the test a little bit more challenging. In any case the targeting sensors – those blighted traitors – were aligned and ready, so size should be no problem.

"Acquiring a lock," he said into the open channel. "Commander?" he added, prompting an okay from Trip, who was monitoring things from Engineering.

"Go ahead, Lieutenant. Give us a memorable explosion."

Malcolm smiled inwardly. "Charging the port cannon," he announced. Seconds later a gauge told him he was good to go. "Firing. Low yield." Shifting his hand to the right command button, he pressed. Nothing happened.

_What the hell…_

The comm. came alive with Trip's perplexed voice. "I'm reading…"

Seconds later it came back more frantic, freezing Malcolm's blood.

"The energy is being re-routed, it's comin'… Oh, hell!"

"Trip?" Archer's tight voice demanded.

Malcolm's heart missed a beat. Petrified, he watched the readings on his console, barely aware of the sound of Trip's voice in the background, which could now be heard barking orders to his staff. If this amount of energy reached its apparent destination… This could not be; he must be having a nightmare. But the tautness in Trip's voice was very real.

"We're gonna have a cascade, Sir!" the Engineer cried out.

Malcolm grabbed the console tightly with both hands and closed his eyes, numb with dread.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

§ 8 §

"Will try to re-direct the energy into ship's systems," Trip shouted, heart pounding against his ribcage. His fingers flew over the keyboard, but he watched in horror the commands he was entering disappear from the screen. "Oh, damn!"

"Commander!" a voice cried out.

Trip leaned out of one side of the warp engine: someone had grabbed an extinguisher and was putting out a fire; small explosions were popping closer and closer.

"Trip!"

Trip was vaguely aware of Archer's voice prompting a reply, but had no time for his Captain. He almost had no time to think. He hurled himself down the platform, virtually jumping off it, and wrenched a compartment open. Sparkles flew and crackled, but there was no time to think of his own safety. Grabbing the bigger conduit, he yanked it out. Fire flared in his hand, and he cried out in agony.

The next he knew, he was on the floor with Rostov at his side.

"Commander, are you all right?"

"Never better," Trip choked out. For a moment he thought he might faint; wouldn't have minded either, but unfortunately it didn't happen. Biting his lip so hard that he tasted blood, he scrunched his eyes shut against the pain and managed to force out, "Has it stopped?"

Rostov gave a low whistle of relief. "Yes, Sir. You saved the ship."

Trip grunted in acknowledgement and blinked. Holding the wrist of his injured appendage tightly, he watched in horror the angry colour it was getting.

"Trip, what the hell is going on?" Archer demanded again, through the comm.

Rostov stood up and went to the nearest link. "Rostov here, Sir. There was a cascade but the Commander stopped it. He's injured his hand."

There was a short beat of silence

"Thank you, Crewman. Tell the Commander I'll meet him in sickbay. Archer out."

Trip grimaced, as much at the dark tone of Archer's voice as from pain, but Rostov couldn't know that.

"Let me walk you to sickbay, Sir," the man offered, his eyes shifting in concern to Trip's hand.

"I'm okay." Trip started to pick himself up and Mike rushed to support him.

"Are you sure you won't need any help, Commander?" he insisted.

"My legs are just fine, Mike," Trip said through gritted teeth; he went for a half-smile but all he managed was a pained grimace. "Don't worry, I'll be fine." Jerking his head towards the confusion that surrounded them, he added, "You'd better take care of this mess."

Rostov sighed in resignation. "Aye, Sir."

* * *

Sitting on the biobed as he let Phlox tend to his injury, Trip wondered who would come through the doors first, whether Jon or Malcolm. He had not long to wait for the answer, for soon he spied through the clear panes Archer approaching at a purposeful pace.

The moment the man crossed the threshold, Trip drawled to him, "It's nothin' serious," wanting to minimise. He doubted that just a few minutes before he'd have managed such a light tone. The painkiller Phlox had given him had undoubtedly helped in that respect.

"Doctor?" Archer enquired, shooting Trip a meaningful glance.

Phlox hadn't shifted his gaze from his job, nor did he now. "The Commander got himself quite a nice little burn, Captain," he said. "He'll be all right, though; provided, of course, he doesn't skip the dermo-regenerating treatments I will undoubtedly have to prescribe."

Archer's features hardened. "What the hell happened?" he asked in a controlled voice.

Dangerously controlled. Archer didn't get mad very often, but Trip knew that he was quite capable of flying off the handle. Before he could say anything the doors swished open again and in walked an ashen-faced Lieutenant Reed. Glancing upon the three of them, the man lost his momentum for a second; but immediately regained it, nodding warily as he approached.

"Are you all right?" Malcolm asked hoarsely, his worried gaze shifting from Trip's face to Phlox's object of attention.

He was a bundle of tightness, and Trip couldn't help but feeling sorry for him. "Yeah, it's just a burnt hand," he replied quietly. "Nothing I haven't had before."

"What happened?" Archer asked again, to them both this time.

There was now a clear undercurrent of anger in his voice. Well, Trip couldn't blame the man. Self-destruction while testing your own weapons was hardly the way a Captain would want to go down with his ship – not to mention in history.

Trip exchanged a glance with Malcolm, and the man's silence told him he was deferring to his higher rank. He heaved an inner sigh. He would have gladly handed the man one of his pips right now. Raking his good hand through his hair, he explained, "The energy that was to be funnelled through the cannon got re-routed to Engineering. And when I tried to divert it into ship's systems, the commands I entered suddenly disappeared from my screen. All I could think of, was to yank out one of the conduits to stop the cascade from reachin' our warp core."

Archer turned unreadable eyes on Malcolm. "Any idea what went wrong, Lieutenant?"

Trip couldn't remember ever seeing Malcolm falter, but he did now. "I..." His grey gaze shifted away in discomfort, and it took him a moment to reply. "No, Sir. At least not yet," he finally said, in a deep voice.

Archer began to pace. "You were in charge of supervising the cannon's overhaul," he said tautly.

Studying the Captain's set of the shoulders, Trip wondered if the man's anger – at least some of it – wasn't self directed. He could bet Jon right now was kicking himself for not taking Malcolm off duty. Though, to be honest, it was still early days to start laying blame on anybody.

Malcolm's head jerked up proudly. "Yes, Sir," he replied, this time unwaveringly. "And I'm prepared to take responsibility for anything that might have not been done properly, Captain."

"Evidently something wasn't."

"I intend to find out," Malcolm said darkly.

Stopping, Archer turned slowly, and to Trip's surprise there was no longer anger on his face but pain. "I'm relieving you of duty until further notice, Lieutenant," he said deadpan, green eyes locking with grey ones for one long, suspended moment. Then he croacked out, "Dismissed."

Malcolm blinked, face muscles clenching. For a few seconds he looked unable to move, but in the end he gave a sharp nod and left.

"When can Trip return to duty, Doctor?" Archer asked tautly as soon as the doors had closed behind his Armoury Officer.

With a light shrug Phlox replied, "The Commander can work, Captain, as long as he doesn't do jobs where the use of both hands is required."

Archer heaved a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. "Trip, I want you to figure out what went wrong in the Armoury," he ordered. "Work with Müller, and ask Rostov to give you a hand as well; he was helping out with the overhaul, might remember something." He started resolutely towards the door. "I'll have T'Pol look into the programming problem you had in Engineering."

"Capt'n..."

Archer turned.

"Weren't you a bit tough on Malcolm?" Trip couldn't keep a grimace off his face. This was a screwed up situation if he had ever seen one. "After all, we don't know that what happened was his fault."

Archer frowned. "He was the Officer in charge," he said, anger resurfacing. With a meaningful wave of the hand, he added, "Damn it, we came this close to destroying an alien ship, and now also our own. I can't take any more chances." Before turning to leave, he shot a last narrowed-eyed glance to Phlox and ordered, "I want you to put Lieutenant Reed through a complete physical and psychological examination, Doctor. Find out if anything is wrong with him."

Trip watched the retreating figure with a heavy heart. It wouldn't be fun picking through Malcolm's work with the man's SIC. And if, as was quite likely, they ever discovered that what had happened had been caused by human error…

"Come back in two hours for another shot of painkiller, Commander."

Phlox's soft voice brought Trip back from his grim thoughts, and he refocused on Denobulan eyes that were uncharacteristically veiled. Looking down on his now bandaged hand, he blurted out, "D'you think it's possible that Malcolm is _not fine_?" His heart was too full to keep things inside. "The Capt'n told me about those injuries he doesn't remember gettin."

There was a silence, which prompted Trip to lift his eyes on Phlox again: he was smirking unhappily.

"I'd hate to think that my recommendation to let the Lieutenant return to duty might have endangered so many lives," the Doctor said, in a voice where emotion rang clear.

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Doc: that remains to be seen."

Trip's effort to be reassuring fell flat, and with a sigh he let himself slide off the biobed. "Well, I'll see ya later," he muttered, walking towards the door and his unwelcome task.

"I have no doubt about it," Phlox's voice reached him. "Should you forget, your hand will indeed remind you."

Trip winced. Sometimes Phlox could be downright and absolutely obnoxious.

* * *

As he reached once again one end of his room, Malcolm had to call on all of his mental discipline to stop himself from driving a fist hard into the bulkhead. A bit of physical pain might actually make something snap in him – and he wasn't thinking of his knuckles.

Just hours after he had thought that a glimmer of light had finally managed to pierce his darkness, he had plunged again neck-deep into the viscous brew of his self-doubt, the confidence that working again in the Armoury had given him all but forgotten.

What had happened to the man he had worked so hard to become? Lieutenant Reed, the reliable Officer who had things under control didn't seem to exist any more; his image was crumbling before the mind's eye of this confused wretch that wore his uniform.

Could it actually be possible that he had made a mistake so serious as to endanger the entire ship? That damned mission, which wouldn't leave him alone, kept distracting him. But no, he had brought his focus back on the job and had worked as conscientiously as was expected of him. He had done everything by the book – he repeated to himself for the umpteenth time – as good a job as the old Lieutenant Reed would have done.

Then what had gone wrong? For something _had_ gone wrong, terribly wrong, and there was little doubt in his mind that he should have prevented it.

Passing a hand through his hair, Malcolm closed his eyes and tried to relax his shoulders, which were in knots, just like his guts. He couldn't blame Captain Archer for what he had done; but to have been taken off duty when he badly wanted to be in the Armoury finding out what had happened was almost more than he could bear.

Now, he guessed, he'd be put through the strainer, tested in every possible way. The idea made him nauseous and his heart picked up pace. He'd be asked questions and prodded, and needles would--

_Needles_? Phlox didn't use needles...

Malcolm's hand went of its own accord to his side; as an irrational feeling began to choke him he hugged himself tight: it was the feeling of being trapped. He took a couple of deep breaths, to regain control, but his heart refused to slow down.

Proteus had lain a few feet away, and Malcolm had been unable to look at him. Death was never a pretty sight, but this death, because of the way it had been inflicted and why, was unbearable. He had averted his head and scrunched his eyes closed, willing to erase the sight from his mind, yet well aware that it was already permanently etched there. Yes, as the man had told him, his blood would be on Malcolm's conscience even though he had not pressed the trigger. Proteus had broken free alright. Dead to be free from the death the Section would have undoubtedly dealt him. The man had been driven to such desperate lengths, and he – Malcolm – had his share of responsibility.

With a hand that wasn't all that steady, Malcolm had reached for the communicator he'd been given to contact Harris. It would be the last time he'd speak to the damned man – he had sworn to himself, to quench the anger and grief.

Harris had sounded infuriatingly unruffled, but Malcolm had ignored him, concentrating only on the man's instructions to hide the body nearby and give him the co-ordinates so it could be transported out. Then he would be free to go.

Free to go. Freedom came at a costly price these days. But it was what he had so desperately wanted to hear, so he had done as told and gone on his way.

Malcolm frowned. Or had he? Two different sets of memories suddenly overlapped, making him confused. In one he could see himself walking away; yet in another he seemed to remember not being able to abandon Proteus like that, like a discarded bag of rubbish, and waiting around to make sure Harris would do what he had promised.

Shaking his head in frustration, Malcolm resumed his pacing. Why was he so bloody muddled? It had to have something to do with those injuries he still had no memories about.

Reaching the far wall, this time he did not stop himself from pounding the bulkhead. Pain flared in his hand and he brought his fist to his mouth. He'd done it again: got engrossed in a part of his life that was over and done with. Right now he should try to figure out what might have caused that cannon to fail, not what he had done after Proteus had killed himself.

"Phlox to Reed."

Malcolm looked at the comm. for one long moment, before pushing off the wall and going to answer the page. He had a fairly good idea what it was about, but there was no way he could avoid what he knew was coming.

"Reed here," he said flatly.

"Would you please come to sickbay, Lieutenant," the Denobulan said.

"What for, Doctor?" He knew the answer, of course, but he asked all the same.

"The Captain wants me to give you another complete assessment." Then after a pause, Phlox added softly, "For your own sake, I suggest you cooperate, Mr. Reed."

Malcolm leaned on his desk with both hands, letting his head fall forward and closing his eyes. "I'll be right there," he muttered.

Demons of the present and demons of the past. Would he ever find some peace? He was so bloody tired of worrying...

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

§ 9 §

The mood in the Armoury was not what anyone would call 'light'.

Though appropriately collaborative, Müller wasn't taking Malcolm's absence very well. Trip could tell that. And even Rostov seemed off-colour, probably because he felt in part responsible for the failure of the test. Both men, however, were doing their best to get to the bottom of things and solve the mystery. That is to say, they were painstakingly taking the cannon apart again, piece by piece, while Trip checked the overhaul logs. At least that was something he could do with only one hand.

"Here is the main circuitboard of the multiphasic emitter, Commander."

Trip turned his head to the deep voice of Malcolm's Second. Müller's face was carefully inexpressive, as if he were afraid to unbridle his emotions and let them show.

"I see," Trip acknowledged perplexedly. "Have you checked it?"

A frown creased for a fleeting moment Bernhard's brow. "Me, Sir?" he wondered. At Trip's questioning look, he explained, "The multiphasic emitter was the part of the cannon that Lieutenant Reed serviced personally. I thought you'd prefer--"

"I don't doubt for a moment that your loyalty to the ship comes before your loyalty to Lieutenant Reed, Ensign," Trip cut him off with a touch of irritation, which he immediately regretted. They were all tense and tired, which made for easy misunderstandings and fast tempers.

There was a moment of uneasy silence.

Trip shook his head, wincing. "Look, Bernhard... this isn't a witch hunt." With a sigh he turned all the way to face the man. "Lieutenant Reed was taken off duty as a precaution, not as punishment," he said lowering his voice and glancing around. "No one is accusing him of anythin'." _Yet_, a wicked voice added in his mind; because damn it, it seemed pretty obvious that the overhaul had not been done as it should have, and the Captain was right, Malcolm _had_ been in charge of it.

Müller pursed his lips. "I will check the emitter myself, then," he said, green eyes carefully studying Trip's face.

Trip smiled, hoping to defuse some of the tension. "Good man. I know you'll be thorough, Ensign."

"Thank you, Sir."

Watching Müller leave, Trip passed his good hand through his hair. Both the Engineering and Armoury departments were very closely-knit. He knew Malcolm had been missed during the past three months, and this – accident or error, whatever it was – was coming at a bad moment. Not that there was ever a good moment for the Chief of a department to be suspected of almost causing the ship to blow to smithereens, he mused grimly.

He wondered how Malcolm must be feeling. He must be going out of his mind. Well, he'd better get back to work. The sooner they found the cause of what had happened, the better it was for everyone, Malcolm included.

* * *

"Can you tell me approximately which ribs are the ones you cracked, Lieutenant?"

Malcolm clenched his jaw and counted to five. "I told you a moment ago: I don't remember injuring myself, Doctor," he growled.

Phlox gave him a long, assessing look, which got Malcolm wishing he could jump off the biobed and stride out of sickbay. Not only was he scrambled; not only had he missed something which had resulted in the ship being nearly destroyed; not only had the Captain taken him off duty; but he also had to submit to this... this... senseless _interrogation_. Again.

The Denobulan quietly studied him, as he would a nutcase, and Malcolm cursed his own quick temper. It certainly wasn't going to help.

Raising his eyebrows, Phlox suggested, "Don't make an _effort_ to remember, just tell me offhand on which side."

Malcolm felt his eyes grow cold. "What does it matter if I cracked my left ribs or my right?" he spat out in a voice that, despite all his good intentions, was all spikes, even to his own ears. "I thought the relevant thing was the fact that I have no recollection of the incident."

"If you instinctively tell me the correct side, it will mean your memories are closer to the surface than you think," Phlox explained patiently.

Malcolm frowned pensively: back in his quarters, just moments before, he had unconsciously touched his left side... He slowly repeated the movement, watching Phlox's gaze follow his hand as it found the spot.

The Doctor nodded. "Yes, indeed."

"I still don't remember," Malcolm croaked out uneasily, feeling like a fool.

"One step at a time, Lieutenant," Phlox said gently.

Malcolm cursed under his breath again, closing his eyes as he did so. He hated to be treated like a child. And yet... Heaving a breath, he re-focused on the physician. "I'm sorry, Doctor," he mumbled. "I suppose none of this is your fault."

Phlox gave him a pale smile. "It may well be none of yours either."

With a sarcastic snort, Malcolm wondered, "Are you referring to my memory blank or to the explosion that could have killed us all?" But before Phlox could answer, he grunted, "Sorry. Forget it. As you may have noticed, I'm not in the best of moods."

Phlox just looked at him, his blue eyes as unperturbed as ever. "Why don't you tell me about your mission?" he simply asked.

Malcolm crossed his arms over his chest. "Look, do I really have to? I'm back. I want to pick up my life from where I left it and forget about my mission, Doctor."

"Unfortunately, as far as I can tell, that doesn't seem to be happening, Lieutenant."

* * *

Walking back to his quarters – it seemed like ages later – Malcolm felt as limp as a wet rag. He was exhausted – not so much physically as mentally and psychologically – and in a bad mood, and against his better judgement and Doctor's orders he decided to skip supper, unable to bear the thought of food in his present state.

In the end he had told Phlox some of it – after all he could count on the old doctor/patient confidentiality rule. He had told him what he had been sent to do; and what had happened, with Proteus taking his own life. He still couldn't remember anything about getting injured, though. When could that have happened? He had walked away from that damn alley in one piece, he was sure of it.

He had walked away and had got drunk.

Yes, he'd got smashed in that bar, and had been shaken awake by the owner who'd wanted to close up shop. He'd been embarrassed and annoyed to have been so weak and careless as to have fallen virtually unconscious on a table in a public place, but he'd shrugged it off and gone on his way. Harris had given him Enterprise's last known position, and he'd grabbed that transport which…

Coming around a bend in the corridor, Malcolm spotted a familiar figure entering the turbo lift. "Commander!" he called, picking up his pace.

Trip turned and put a hand on the door to stop it from closing. "Hey," he said with a lot less light-heartedness than usual.

Malcolm joined him inside the lift and Trip shot him a glance. "B deck?"

"Yes."

Leaning back against the wall, Trip started worrying the bandage on his injured hand. He wasn't his usual upbeat self, but no wonder – Malcolm thought grimly – there wasn't much to be upbeat about, even without a burnt hand.

"How's your hand?" he asked quietly.

"Not too bad. Painkiller's helpin'."

The man seemed miles away, and Malcolm felt tension grip him again. Surely this seesaw of feelings could not be good for someone's health. "Have you discovered anything?" he couldn't help asking.

Trip refocused on him and muttered, "Seems a virus wiped out my commands, when I wanted to divert that energy."

"A _virus_?" Malcolm blurted out, alarms going off in his head. "But that means--"

"T'Pol and Hoshi are tryin' to find out more," Trip cut him off tensely.

"If someone sabotaged the computer, doesn't the Captain think I ought to be informed about it?" Malcolm spat out in outrage. "I'm the Chief of Security, for heaven's sake, I must be allowed back on duty!"

His outburst was followed by a silence that was more eloquent than anything Trip might have replied. Malcolm studied his friend's sudden guardedness, not liking it one bit. A cold knot started forming in his stomach.

"Surely he doesn't… you don't think that I--"

"Hell, Malcolm, no," Trip cut him off once again, grimacing.

The lift stopped and the doors opened, but Malcolm was frozen in place. Confusion was being quickly replaced by hurt. "Doesn't the Captain think I could help, under the circumstances?" he blurted out.

Shifting the weight on his feet, Trip darted him a nervous glance. "Malcolm, I talked to the Capt'n; he wants to keep you off duty. In fact, he'll probably bite my head off for lettin' slip about the virus."

_I'm no bloody saboteur_, Malcolm thought bitterly.

"Look--" Trip started again; but this time it was his turn to be cut off.

"What about the problem with the cannon," Malcolm asked tautly. "Have you found out why it didn't fire?"

"Not yet."

Malcolm shook his head as if to clear it, wishing he could wake up from a bad dream. A sudden thought struck him.

"Listen: Rostov showed me a board with a component that seemed to have been recently replaced," he said urgently. "The board checked out fine, but… Look, just tell him to ask Müller whether he did make any repairs to the cannon during my absence. If Bernhard didn't, I think you should give that component a closer look. Rostov will know what I'm talking about."

"Alright," Trip muttered, eyes not lingering on him for more than a couple of seconds.

Malcolm felt his heart turn into something painful and heavy that he would have gladly done without. "What's wrong with you?" he said in a low voice where hurt and anger fought for prime position. "Don't you know me? It's as if you were talking to a bloody stranger."

Trip winced. "Look, I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I'm tired and… this is crazy. I can't believe this is happening, that somebody actually gave us a virus that might have resulted in the ship blowing up."

Malcolm swallowed past a lump in his throat. Was it true what Trip had told him, that they didn't suspect him? He was no longer sure. Was this what he had come back to? Mistrust and suspicion? This, from the people he had come to think of as friends? For whose sake he had allowed Harris to get a hold on him again?

You idiot – a mocking voice whispered. Haven't you learnt your lesson? Hasn't a lifetime of feeling alone taught you anything? You can't really count on so-called _friends_. There are no true friends. No one can truly know you, and you can't truly know anyone.

With an act of willpower, Malcolm got his legs to move and carry him out of the lift. _There are no true friends_. He turned, desperate to find something in Trip's eyes that could reassure him of the contrary.

"I've gotta go," Trip said, allowing him once again to meet his gaze. It looked deeply troubled but also uncharacteristically unwilling to let him in.

He pressed the button, and Malcolm watched the doors close, breaking even that feeble link.

As soon as it was cut, something rebelled in him. Reaching in his pocket he closed his fingers around a small container, drawing comfort from its presence. Phlox had insisted that he take it with him, and he had reluctantly given in. He was happy he had, now. He'd take a couple of Phlox's magic pills and get himself a few hours of oblivion. _To hell with it all_ - that man inside the Lieutenant was hissing. _Let them manage on their own_.

* * *

"The virus was activated the moment the energy was rerouted, Captain."

It was late at night. Archer felt tired and irritable, and this last piece of news, though delivered by T'Pol with her habitual poise, cast things in an even grimmer light.

"You mean to tell me that the misfire and the virus are tied together in some way?" he asked his Science Officer, with a narrowed-eyed glance. At times like these he envied the Vulcans' different physiology and greater strength.

Trip, on the other hand, had dropped to sit in one of the ready-room chairs looking miserable and exhausted. The man had dark circles under his eyes. T'Pol's words, though, got enough of his attention to revive him: he pushed to a straighter position, suddenly more awake. "Oh, hell," he muttered.

"There has never been any doubt in my mind that the two were connected," T'Pol replied, lifting a graceful eyebrow at the curse.

Archer let the notion sink in and turned to his Chief Engineer. "What can you tell me about the cannon's malfunction?"

"Müller and Rostov are gonna examine a component that appears to have been replaced recently," Trip slowly replied, looking as if his mouth and brain were following different paths. Refocusing on the present, he added, "Rostov says it had measured up, when they did the overhaul, but Müller didn't make any repairs in the past three months, so the thing's a bit suspicious."

"Are we able to tell when and where this virus was programmed?" Archer asked T'Pol.

"Not yet. It's not a simple matter, Captain. We are working at it."

"Work fast," Archer said meaningfully, with a dismissing nod.

As soon as T'Pol had left, Trip slumped in his chair again. "Capt'n, don't you think Malcolm should be allowed back on duty? If there is a saboteur on board, we could use his expertise." He grimaced. "I mean, you don't actually suspect of _him_, do you?"

Archer dropped the hand that was pinching the bridge of his nose and shot his Chief Engineer a meaningful look. "Come on, Trip, be serious," he said tautly. "But something is definitely up with Malcolm, and I'd rather find out what it is, before I throw him in the middle of a situation of this complexity."

"He's hurtin', and needs a friend." Trip bit his lip. "And with all of this now, I have no time to…" Waving a frustrated arm, he suddenly spat out, "Why did he go on that damned mission, anyway?"

So it was finally in the open: ever since Malcolm had left, the unspoken question had been like a presence between them.

Taking a step towards the porthole, Archer leaned his forehead on his arm, against the bulkhead, and watched the stars streaming by. "He felt he owed Harris," he replied rather vaguely. Not that he had any illusions Trip would accept that non-explanation.

"You already told me that," was in fact the predictable and deadpan comment.

Archer turned, and found himself under close scrutiny.

"It's because of the Terra Prime business, isn't it?" Trip asked directly. "Malcolm got Harris to help, didn't he?"

Archer broke eye contact, turning to the porthole again. "I was the one who asked Malcolm to contact Harris." He heaved a breath. "I'm sorry, but at the time it seemed the only way to get you and T'Pol safely back." Turning to shoot a pained glance over his shoulders, he added hoarsely, "And your child."

There was no reply to that – or maybe Trip's thoughts were too muddled to be put into words.

The door chime saved them from the uncomfortable silence.

"Come," Archer called. With a sigh, he relinquished the calming view and turned to face the door.

Müller appeared on the threshold. He nodded to his C.O. and stepped inside, his green gaze locking with Trip's for a moment, before returning to Archer.

"That component. It isn't what it looks like," he said, with one, incredulous shake of the head.

"What d'you mean?" Trip enquired.

"When one scans it, it seems a normal relay; but Rostov and I tested it: it acts as a re-routing device, Commander. We have undoubtedly found what redirected the energy and caused the cannon to malfunction."

"Wait a moment," Archer said with a frown of disbelief. "Are we talking about anti-scanning technology? How the hell did it end up inside one of our cannons?"

"I'll be damned if I know, Sir," Müller replied perplexedly, adding in self-consciousness, "If you'll pass me the expression."

But Archer couldn't care less about form, at the moment. As the notion sank in, he clenched his jaw. He feared he might know, instead.

"I want you to check the Armoury's security tapes, Ensign," he ordered. "Go backwards, starting from the time of the accident. Make it a priority, but be discreet."

Müller frowned and looked about to ask something, but then thought better of it. "Aye, Captain," he said, nodding, and left.

Archer cursed under his breath.

"Capt'n?"

Trip's voice was quite concerned, reflecting Archer's own feelings. Much as it sounded preposterous and he didn't want to acknowledge the idea, the only person who could have brought something on board…

"We haven't been on any inhabited worlds in the past three months," Archer said darkly. "Nor let anyone on Enterprise." He didn't need to spell things out. Trip immediately got the unspoken implications.

"I won't believe it until I have definite proof," the Engineer countered with determination.

Archer frowned grimly. "Let's just hope the security tapes won't show what I fear," he murmured.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

§10§

The ship must be destroyed. You will not fail.

The message ran through the man's mind incessantly as he walked towards his destination.

Destroyed. Yes, this time the ship would be destroyed.

His hand closed around a small device. Small and deadly. He must act naturally. And fast.

A moment, and it would be over. No one would feel a thing.

* * *

Trip checked the time: twenty-three-fifty. His legs wanted to take him to his quarters and bed, but sleep was out of the question in their current situation.

As he walked towards his destination, he curbed the desire to quicken his pace. He needed the little bit of extra time to think.

He felt totally scrambled, not to mention torn and conflicted. Actually, he felt like a damned betrayer: he hadn't told Archer that it had been Malcolm who had suggested that that specific component of the phase cannon should be checked. The fact could mean only two things: either Malcolm knew nothing about the sabotage and had had a surprising hunch; or something was really wrong with him and he was trying to divert suspicion away from himself by putting them on the right track.

Trip entered the turbo lift and pressed the button to B deck.

He wanted to speak to the man first, and lay things out in the open, even at the risk of a harsh reprimand from Archer. He would ask Malcolm about the component and about his mission; he would force him to open up; he would be the friend he hadn't been up to now.

Trip was so absorbed in his thoughts that he hurried out of the lift without looking, bumping into Hoshi.

"Commander!"

"Sorry, Hoshi," Trip said, helping her regain her balance.

"Is something wrong?" she asked with a frown. "I mean, other than the obvious," she added deadpan.

Body language was still a language, and this was the Communication Officer, Trip realised. "I..." He winced. "I'm worried about a friend," he said.

"Malcolm?" Hoshi asked outright.

He should have imagined she would guess. It wasn't difficult.

"Yeah."

"I just wish the man weren't so uncommunicative," Hoshi said pensively. "I'm concerned about him too. He seems... distant."

"Have you and T'Pol found anything more about that virus?" Trip enquired. Malcolm had the knowledge to hack a computer, if he wanted to.

Hoshi's mouth twitched to the side, making a dimple of worry appear. "We aren't one hundred percent sure yet, but seems very likely it was programmed from the Armoury. T'Pol wants to be certain, though, before going to the Captain."

Trip felt his muscles clench. "Dammit," he mumbled. There was no time to waste. "Keep me posted," he said. Squeezing Hoshi's shoulder, he rushed off without waiting for a reply. The knot in his stomach was so tight that it was beginning to hurt.

Unfortunately it got even tighter when, a couple of minutes later, he found himself standing outside Malcolm's quarters, waiting in vain for the man to answer the door bell.

Leaning with his back against the bulkhead, Trip pinched the bridge of his nose. This was not right. Where could Malcolm be, this late at night? He hastened to the nearest comm. link.

"Tucker to T'Pol."

"Go ahead," the level voice replied without delay.

"Can you check Malcolm's whereabouts for me?"

The few seconds of wait felt like ages. When the answer came, it was in a voice that, even for a Vulcan, sounded somewhat puzzled.

"He appears to be heading for the hatch leading to the upper catwalk in Engineering."

"T'Pol, I don't like this," Trip said tautly. "I'm going to Engineering. Ask Müller to join me. Armed. Tell him to go in through the upper hatch. I'll take the lower one."

"Understood."

The tension in T'Pol's voice had been palpable, and gave Trip a flashback of the days when the stressful events of Terra Prime had brought the Vulcan's feeling closer to the surface. Shoving the thought aside, he rushed to the closest weapons' locker, where he punched in his code and grabbed a phase pistol. Checking its setting, he switched its power cell on and broke into a run towards his department.

* * *

By the time he entered Engineering, his heart was beating a fast drum in his chest. This late at night the room was sparsely manned, and his eyes were immediately drawn to Hannah Hess, who was cleaning her hands on a rag, discussing something with a crewman.

"Commander," she said, becoming aware of him. Her brow creased in a frown at the sight of the phase pistol in his hand.

"Have you seen…" Trip started. But his voice died on his lips when movement caught the corner of his eye. Lifting his gaze, he felt his mouth go dry: a figure was crouching on top of the warp engine.

"Malcolm!" he cried out.

Pivoting on his feet, one hand to the ground to balance himself, Malcolm turned and blinked. "The ship must be destroyed," he said like an automaton, raising his other hand, in which was a small device.

"No!" Trip shouted. "Listen to me! Your job is to _defend_ this ship. You are the Armoury Officer!"

Confusion fleetingly crossed Malcolm's features.

"Look, come down, and we'll sort things out," Trip urged, trying to curb the panic in his voice. "Malcolm, please…"

Malcolm's eyes suddenly hardened again. "I will not fail," he said, his words ringing out clearly in the stunned silence.

Quickly raising his pistol, Trip tensed and aimed. But before he could press the trigger, another beam flashed, and Malcolm crumpled, revealing Müller on the upper catwalk behind him; then the limp body slid off the engine and crashed on top of a console, finally dropping like deadweight to the ground.

Trip watched in horror as it began to convulse.

"Get Phlox," he shouted, as he tore the dirty rag out of Hess's hands and hurried to the fallen man's side.

"Hess to sickbay…"

The woman's frantic voice faded in the background, for another voice was echoing in Trip's mind: _Don't you know me?_ _It's as if you were talking to a bloody stranger_. As he gently turned Malcolm on his side and slid the cloth under his head, he wondered what had happened to his friend to turn him into this stranger who had wanted to kill them all, and himself in the process.

Why had he waited this long to try and speak to him? Damn it...

"Hold on, Malcolm," he said bitterly, "Help is on its way." He undid a few buttons of the man's black undershirt and put a hand on his shoulder, fighting the urge to withdraw it from the disturbing spasms. He wanted Malcolm to feel his presence, wanted to be there for him, at least now. Hopefully it wasn't too late to be his friend.

Blood was trickling down a cut on Malcolm's forehead, where a bruise was darkening, a consequence of his fall; and his eyes were glassed-over. Trip averted his gaze.

"Sir," a numb voice said.

Müller was a few steps away, looking petrified.

Feeling sorry for the man, Trip croaked out, "You did the right thing, Ensign."

Bernhard shook his head, swallowing hard, and his green gaze shifted from Malcolm to Trip. "There is a charge magnetised to the warp engine, Commander," he said tautly.

"_What_?" Trip scrunched his eyes shut. "The detonator," he said, flashing them open again. He checked Malcolm's hands, but they were empty. "He must have lost it in the fall."

Dropping on all fours, Müller started searching.

Trip wanted to join him, but Malcolm was still seizing. His eyelids had drifted closed and a soft, pained moan escaped his lips. Trip tightened the grip on his shoulder. "The Doc will be here soon, Malcolm," he said, silently urging the physician to hurry.

"Here it is, Commander!" a voice exclaimed. From under the engine Müller re-emerged, studying a small device in his hands. "Oh, hell," he cursed darkly. "It needs a code to be turned off."

Just then Phlox and his medics burst in, a bit out of breath. The Denobulan took in the scene and rushed to their side.

"What happened?" he asked, kneeling down.

Trip moved out of his way. "Malcolm threatened to blow the ship up; we had to stun him," he explained, surprised that his voice was more or less steady. "Fell from the top of the warp engine and started convulsing."

"How long has it been?" the Doctor calmly enquired as he passed a medical scanner over the shuddering body.

Trip bit his lip, trying to concentrate. "I'm not sure. Two minutes, three… A few seconds before Hess paged you."

With fast and practised movements Phlox put the scanner away and loaded a hypospray. A moment later there was a hiss as it was discharged into Malcolm's bloodstream. The Lieutenant's body, however, refused to still.

"Let's get him to sickbay," Phlox ordered, his voice laced with unusual concern.

The medics carefully transferred Malcolm onto a gurney, and they were gone.

Trip turned to Bernhard. "Is it safe to detach that charge?" he asked, passing his good hand nervously through his hair. "We could transport it out."

"I wouldn't do that, Sir," Müller replied, shaking his head thoughtfully. "Moving it might set it off, and transporting it almost certainly will." With a huff he added, "Even scanning it might be dangerous."

Trip clenched his jaw. "Can you defuse it, then?"

Müller was silent for a long moment, green eyes veiled with concern. "Lieutenant Reed is the expert, but…" He grimaced. "I suppose I'm the next choice, though it's rather more responsibility that I'd like, Commander."

Trip rubbed his chin. "I can't blame you," he commented softly. "Does it pose any immediate danger?"

"No, Sir. But it _is_ a charge sitting on top of a warp engine…"

Trip turned to Hess. "Hannah, contact the helm and have them drop out of warp. We need to take the warp drive offline." To Müller, he said wryly, "Keep an eye on the damn thing."

"Even two, Sir," the Ensign replied darkly.

Trip strode to the nearest comm. link and heaved a steadying breath. "Tucker to Archer," he paged. Jon was not going to like this.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

§ 11 §

When Trip reached sickbay he thought he'd find an emergency situation, with Phlox imparting orders in urgent tones. The unexpected calm and silence hit him like a wall, breaking his quick pace and sending his worry to new heights.

His eyes barely noticed the presence of Archer and T'Pol, for they were immediately drawn to the imaging chamber's sliding bed: on it, Malcolm's body wasn't convulsing any more; in fact it was as still as... Trip's heart missed a beat. But no... the monitor near the bed was registering data, and Phlox was busy over the immobile form. No, Malcolm was still with them.

Letting out a slow breath, Trip let his gaze travel to his superior officers. T'Pol, standing a couple of meters away, arms crossed over her chest, briefly glanced his way before returning her eyes on the Armoury Officer. Trip could tell – from subtle signs which on the Vulcan, however, spoke plenty – that she was quite concerned. As was Archer, but he, of course, showed his state of mind in a totally different way: the captain was pacing nervously. Seeing him approach, Archer stopped and turned.

"Any news?" he enquired.

Trip pressed two fingers on his tired eyes. The news was still the same, and it wasn't good.

"Müller looks like our best bet," he muttered. "In fact, our only one, unless Malcolm..." Sighing, he lowered his hand and went on "Let's face it, Capt'n: Bernhard hasn't got Malcolm's experience in disarming explosives. The man is not crazy about doin' it, either; but I wouldn't recommend waitin' too long: I don't know about you, but I don't like the idea of a charge sittin' on top of our warp drive."

Archer's only comment was a hardening of his jaw.

Trip cast a glance towards the only occupied biobed, taking in with a frown the fact that Malcolm was strapped to it. "How is he?" he asked wearily. He couldn't erase the image of the man falling off the engine and beginning to convulse, and every time it replayed in his mind he had to stop himself from scrunching his eyes shut against it.

"Phlox hasn't said anything yet," Archer replied, his own gaze going to the unconscious Officer. He heaved a deep breath. "Trip, when you paged, I was just about to do the same." His green eyes darkened. "Harris called."

Anger rose through Trip like a sweeping tide. If Harris hadn't requested Malcolm for that mission his friend wouldn't be lying as pale as death itself on a biobed – that much was clear.

"What the hell did he want now?" he spat out venomously.

Archer grimaced. "He wanted to warn us." With a soft huff of disbelief laced with sarcasm, he added, "Tell us that Enterprise might be at risk."

"No kiddin'!" Trip exclaimed, barely restraining his fury. He was so upset that the real meaning of the Captain's words took a moment to sink in. "What risk?" he added with a frown when realization finally struck him. "Did he say anythin' about Malcolm?"

"Yes. I already informed T'Pol."

Trip studied Archer's careful expression. The man was quite clearly making an effort to rein in his feelings.

"About what?" he asked tautly.

Archer cast another look at the unconscious Armoury Officer. With a deep breath, he began, "Malcolm was sent after a man who had defected. Someone with whom he had worked, whom he knew well. His mission ended with the defector's death – I wasn't told any more about it – and as far as Harris was concerned that was the end of Malcolm's bargain. He was given the last known co-ordinates of Enterprise and was supposed to have left." Archer paused for a beat, and his features hardened. "What Malcolm wasn't told," he went on, anger closer to the surface, "was that the defecting agent was suspected to have some Terra Prime sympathizers as friends: the Section thought the man had wanted to re-form a terrorist cell. They went on with the investigation, passing the area where Malcolm had caught the defector through the sieve. Yesterday they had a break-through. They burst into an apartment, apprehended two people and found all kinds of information." Archer closed his eyes for a second, his face tightening again. "They discovered evidence that Malcolm had been held prisoner there for a couple of weeks after the agent's death. They don't know what was done to him; but knowing that the Terra Prime people aren't exactly fond of Enterprise and her crew, Harris thought it _wise_ to alert us."

"Damn him!" Trip spat out through gritted teeth. "Why didn't he tell Malcolm the whole story? If he had, I'm sure--"

"Captain."

They both turned to Phlox, who was approaching with T'Pol. The Denobulan looked pensive, which didn't help Trip's heavy heart a bit.

"Doctor?" Archer said, squaring his shoulders as if to face more bad news.

"The Lieutenant's life isn't in danger," the Denobulan replied, but his tone was far from reassuring.

"But?" Archer prompted. "What happened to him? Why did he act the way he did?"

Phlox frowned. "Remember that skull fracture I told you about?" Without waiting for the obvious reply he went on, in an intrigued voice, "It's remarkable. My scanner is picking up some sort of implant, which... Well, I checked the Lieutenant twice before now, and – believe me – it just wasn't there."

"Anti-scanning technology," Trip wondered aloud. "Like that re-routing device."

Phlox brought a hand to his chin and was about to comment when a quiet voice said, "A very logical possibility."

All eyes turned to T'Pol, who went on, "The phaser blast that stunned the Lieutenant may have disrupted the apparatus, making it visible to the Doctor's scanner."

"Hmm," Phlox pondered. "The blast could have also made the device malfunction, causing the Lieutenant to convulse."

"What kind of device?" Archer enquired in puzzlement. "What did – or does it still do?"

"Sends impulses to the brain, undoubtedly," Phlox replied with a resolute jerk of his chin down and back. "As to whether the thing is still working, I'm afraid I cannot tell for sure. Based on my observation of the Lieutenant's behaviour, it obviously isn't something designed to operate all the time."

"Captain, after what Harris told you, it seems likely that these impulses trigger a response to some sort of brain conditioning," T'Pol suggested.

Phlox frowned in confusion, and Archer brought him up to date. "We just found out from Harris that Malcolm was a prisoner of Terra Prime terrorists."

The Doctor raised his eyebrows. "I see," he said grimly. "That explains a few things – the Lieutenant's cracked ribs, for example."

A few heavy curses went through Trip's mind as his eyes shifted once again to Malcolm's lifeless-looking form. There was a question he wanted to ask but was afraid to. Heart clenching, he summoned the courage and forced it out.

"Can you tell if he suffered any brain damage?"

Phlox's mouth curved into a small but reassuring smile. "I believe he didn't, Commander," he replied softly. Anticipating the next obvious question, he continued, "And though it's not going to be an easy operation, I think I can remove the implant safely."

Archer let out a slow breath. "Well, at least one piece of good news."

A soft moan made them turn.

"Excuse me," Phlox mumbled, hurrying back to the biobed. They all followed him.

Producing his scanner, the Doctor passed it over Malcolm again, who was stirring and started to move his head right and left, clearly annoyed by the buzzing. Finally, after blinking a few times, he cracked his eyes open.

"What happened?" he breathed out.

Phlox turned the scanner off. "You don't remember anything, Mr. Reed?" he asked gently.

Frowning, Malcolm slurred, "What should I--" He broke off, eyes growing wide as he became aware of the restraints that immobilised him. "What happened?" he asked again in a panicked voice, starting to hyperventilate.

It was hardly like him to lose it this way. Trip instinctively knew that Malcolm's time in the hands of those terrorists had something to do with it. Of course – he had undoubtedly been in restraints. Without bothering to ask for permission, he hurried to undo the straps holding his friend. "Easy, Malcolm," he said quietly, "You had a seizure." He knew it was only a partial truth, and that sooner or later Malcolm would have to know the rest; but he hoped for the moment this explanation would suffice.

Freedom of movement had an immediate positive effect: Malcolm's breathing eased and he slowly regained control. Bringing a hand to his forehead, he touched the dressing that covered the injury he had suffered in his fall, wincing.

"You fell and banged your head, Lieutenant," Phlox said. "No concussion, fortunately." Not surprisingly, Malcolm took the words as an authorisation to sit up, and the Doctor hastened to stop him, adding in meaningful tones, "Though you really ought to remain lying down, Mr. Reed."

"I'm fine," Malcolm predictably insisted; and under Phlox's reproachful gaze and with Trip lending a supporting hand, he stubbornly pushed to a sitting position, letting his legs dangle off the edge of the bed. Trip held him for a moment longer, until he was sure the man would not topple over.

Reaching over his shoulder to where Müller's stunning blast had hit him, Malcolm silently sought the Captain with questioning and somewhat uneasy eyes.

"What's the last thing you remember, Lieutenant?" Archer asked him.

"I..." Malcolm's brow creased in thought, his gaze shifting to a nondescript spot on the floor as he kneaded the sore spot. "I was in my quarters, after leaving sickbay," he said slowly. "The Doctor had given me something to rest better and... I went to..." He broke off and refocussed on Archer. "What's going on?" he enquired in a deep voice. "Was I stunned?"

Archer bit his lip. But before he could say anything Malcolm let out a soft curse. Trip watched his grey eyes grow confused.

"Lieutenant?" Archer prompted, while Phlox unobtrusively switched on his scanner again and passed it over Malcolm's head. This time the man seemed oblivious to its buzzing sound; indeed, Malcolm seemed miles away.

"Bloody hell," he cursed again, under his breath.

The alarm on his face tightened a knot in Trip's gut; but when Malcolm's gaze sought Archer again, it had turned painfully brittle.

"Captain, I think that on my mission..." Malcolm faltered and swallowed hard. "Sir, I've been telling you I am fine, but..." Once again the voice died in his throat. Hoarsely, he finally managed to say, "Captain, please tell me what happened."

Archer's words had an ominous ring to them even though he managed to keep an admirably neutral tone. "You tried to blow the ship up, Malcolm."

Trip almost reached out to grab Malcolm's shoulders again, afraid that he might reel under the force of the news; but his friend actually seemed turned to stone: he sat pale and straight-faced, gripping the edge of the biobed tightly.

"You have attached a charge to the warp engine," Archer went on. "Müller stunned you a moment before you could kill us all."

Malcolm closed his eyes. "And the charge?" he asked in a deep voice that could barely be heard.

"It's still there, Lieutenant," Archer replied levelly. "Someone has to defuse it."

The grey eyes flashed open again. "I should be the one doing it, Captain," Malcolm said in earnest. "I have the training, Sir."

"Malcolm, I can't allow that." Archer winced, looking conflicted. "The Doctor found something, a device, implanted in your head," he finally went on. "It's very likely what's responsible for your behaviour." Shaking his head, he added hoarsely, "I'm sorry, but I can't take a chance that it might activate while you are defusing that charge."

Releasing the edge of the bed, Malcolm pressed two fingers on his eyes, his shoulders sagging. "I think... I was taken prisoner," he mumbled after a long moment.

Archer nodded grimly. "You were; Harris called: he found evidence of it in an apartment. You were in the hands of Terra Prime people for two weeks."

"Just now... I remembered something..." Malcolm swallowed, his hand finding his left side as he looked at Phlox. "Not much, but.."

"Easy, Lieutenant," Phlox said gently. "Your memories were probably wiped out. It might take some time, but they will return."

There was a pause, and Malcolm refocused on Archer. "The charge, Sir," he breathed out. "Müller is a fine Armoury man, but I have more experience in defusing explosives."

Archer pursed his lips, shaking his head. "I know, but it's too great a risk."

T'Pol, who had been very quiet, suddenly spoke up. "The Lieutenant could assist Ensign Müller, Captain," she said. Her calm voice immediately lifted the gloom that hung heavily in the room. She fixed her unperturbable dark eyes on Malcolm, as if to quietly infuse confidence into the man. "I believe the Doctor could monitor Mr. Reed's brain activity and alert us to any suspicious variances."

"That is possible," Phlox confirmed.

Trip lifted his eyebrows. "I think Bernhard would appreciate that, Capt'n," he commented.

Rubbing his chin, Archer smirked thoughtfully. "Lieutenant," he finally said, "You'll supervise. But…" he hastened to add, stopping Malcolm, who had opened his mouth to reply. Looking his Armoury Officer straight in the eye, he went on, "You'll be manacled, and monitored by the Doctor. Trip and T'Pol will be present, armed. The moment anything goes wrong with you, you'll be removed from Engineering, if necessary with the use of force." His eyes grew deep as he finished softly, abandoning the official tone, "I'm sorry, Malcolm, but it's either this or nothing."

Malcolm held his gaze, barely blinking. "Agreed," he murmured.

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

§ 12 §

Now that it had begun, the trip down memory lane was unbidden and unstoppable. As Malcolm walked along another _lane_, that to Engineering – with Trip a silent presence beside him, and Phlox and T'Pol following a few steps behind – he wished he could block the relentless images; but he couldn't any more than he could stop the loud beating in his chest: and, just like the pulsing of his heart, the still-motion flashbacks came with rhythmic regularity.

Proteus dead. _Blank._ Himself, waiting beside the body for that promised transport. _Blank._ Three people, materialising out of the blue. _Blank._ Running, with the three in pursuit. _Blank. _Surrounded._ Blank._ Fighting. _Blank._ Pain, in his side.

_How did you injure yourself, Lieutenant?_

Phlox's voice, echoeing in his mind, suddenly interrupted the sequence, only to be overwhelmed by another voice, one that wasn't quite as kind.

_You'll pay for this Lieutenant Reed. For this and for the rest. You and your ship will pay dearly._

Three people, who had seemed to know him so well. Their faces were becoming clearer with every step he took; yet, to him, they had been, and still were, perfect strangers.

"Malcolm?"

Snapping out of it, Malcolm turned to yet another voice, this one real. Trip was studying him with a puzzled and definitely concerned gaze.

"I'm fine," Malcolm said quietly, sending a stab of guilt through his chest. That's what he'd maintained with the Captain in the past couple of days. But at least then he hadn't known. "I'll be okay, I hope," he amended softly, glad that Trip was beside him. No matter what had passed, Trip was there, to give his support. How could he have doubted his friendship?

They turned into the last stretch of corridor and another unbidden image almost had him gasp: he was strapped to a bed just as he had been in sickbay moments before, with a threatening figure looming over him, a syringe in his hand. He felt his breathing hitch and Trip's eyes on him again, and pushed the memory forcefully away, desperate to keep his subconscious at bay and his heartrate from going up yet another notch. If Phlox became aware of his state of mind he'd send him to his quarters. Though the brig would be more appropriate.

The Engineering hatch was suddenly in front of them, and Malcolm stopped and turned, throwing a glance to the phase pistol at Trip's side. "If... you know..." He bore into his friend's blue eyes; words sometimes didn't carry enough meaning. "Don't hesitate," he said firmly. "Bernhard will manage even without me, if he has to."

Trip nodded, giving a lopsided smirk. "Alright, but try not to give me reason to: one stun blast a day is more than enough."

"That it is," Malcolm commented under his breath. His shoulder-blade was still sore from it.

Phlox appeared beside them. "The monitoring shouldn't cause any discomfort, Mr. Reed," he said. "But if at any time you feel anything please do say so."

"Understood."

Malcolm brought a hand to the small device the Doctor had attached to his forehead and steadied his wavering self. He _must_ be fine, just for the time he needed to undo what he himself had done; to prove to the Captain that he was still part of his crew, someone he could count on.

"Let's get this done," he said mustering determination.

Trip nodded and put a hand on the hatch's handle, but before he could open it another voice spoke.

"Lieutenant."

Malcolm turned.

"Good luck," T'Pol said with a telling lift of her eyebrows.

Malcolm allowed himself a mildly amused frown. "I thought Vulcans didn't believe in luck," he commented. He was touched, though, by this illogical 'human' encouragement coming from Logic Herself. As someone of few words, he knew all that was left unsaid, and let gratitude show in his eyes as much as in his voice as he added, "Thank you, Commander."

Trip and T'Pol would see him through this; or keep him from doing more harm. These people _were_, indeed, his friends: they cared about him even when he had placed them all at risk. That's why – he reminded himself – he had gone through all that he had: because he had friends, who had needed his help. He had no regrets.

* * *

Trip pushed the hatch open and watched Müller immediately turn to the sound of people entering Engineering. When the Ensign saw who was of the party his eyes went wide.

"Lieutenant…" he sputtered. "Sir, are you all right?"

Belatedly realising he had ignored two higher ranking Officers, Bernhard virtually snapped to attention, nodding to them in greeting with a mumbled, "Commanders."

"At ease," T'Pol said.

Müller's was a legitimate question – Trip mused – considering the way Malcolm had been carried out of the place, not so very long before. And considering the way their Armoury Officer looked – he silently added as he took in Malcolm's pale and drawn features under the dressing that covered half his forehead.

There was an awkward pause. Malcolm bit his lip, his gaze shifting uneasily to his SIC. "That is… a rather difficult question, Ensign," he croaked out. "I..."

"Your boss isn't entirely well yet, Bernhard," Trip came to the rescue. "But he's well enough to give you a hand with a certain job." He turned to Hess. "Hannah, you and the others can take a break; no one is to enter Engineering until I say so."

T'Pol waited until the few people had filed out; then took a step forward, as well as charge of the explaining.

"It appears that the Lieutenant's uncharacteristic behaviour was caused by a device the Doctor has found implanted in Mr. Reed's skull, Ensign," she informed Müller in short and direct terms. "The apparatus isn't active at the moment – it was probably disrupted by your stun blast. However, since we cannot be certain that it will not reactivate, while Mr. Reed assists you – and for the entire time he remains in Engineering – he has agreed to be monitored by the Doctor and be in restraints." With a lift of her eyebrows, she concluded, "You'll still be doing the disarming, Ensign, but we thought the Lieutenant's experience with explosives would be valuable in this contingency."

Müller let out a slow breath. "Indeed it is, Commander."

T'Pol produced a set of manacles and handed them to Müller. "You will restrain the Lieutenant once you are in position" she said, her neutral Vulcan tone making it sound like a perfectly normal thing to do.

On one side, Phlox had activated his monitoring equipment and was quietly checking its readings.

"What's our status?" Malcolm asked Müller, suddenly sounding more self-assured as he pointedly ignored what was going on around him.

"The charge has been magnetised to… well, the explosive is…" Müller licked his lips uncomfortably.

"Ensign," Malcolm said wryly. "I'm afraid I know full well where the charge is." He waited till the other man, who had blushed slightly, had met his gaze, and enquired, "Is it stable?"

Müller quickly regained his composure. "Yes, Sir," he replied. With a grimace he added, "You wouldn't by any chance remember the code to deactivate it, would you?" He showed the Armoury Officer the detonator.

Malcolm looked at it for a long moment; then lowered his eyes to the floor. "Even if I did remember a code, it would be too great a risk to use it," he muttered. "I myself wouldn't trust that it would be the right one." He gave a mirthless smile. "Sorry, Ensign. I'm afraid there will be no easy way out of this."

The two Armoury men started towards the ladder that had been placed against the warp engine.

"I have a disarming kit already in place," Müller said.

"Good man." Malcolm heaved a tense breath. "After you."

Trip watched them start up the ladder, and turned to join T'Pol and Phlox, who were already on the upper catwalk.

Silence had fallen in the large room, a silence that seemed even more ominous because of the absence of the warp engine's noise. Trip never liked it when they had to take the warp drive offline. It made him feel stranded; it was what kept them within reach of home.

Müller raised the manacles. "Lieutenant…" he said, in obvious unease.

Malcolm silently offered his wrists to the outrage of restraints, the tightening of his mouth the only outward sign of how he felt about it. Trip found himself shifting his gaze away; he knew this was necessary, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

When he turned it back, the two armoury men were already bent on the small but deadly charge that had them all at a stalemate.

* * *

"Lieutenant Reed has a device implanted in his skull," Archer said, hearing the dark, dangerous tone of his voice but unwilling to tone it down. In fact, he leaned slightly forward on his desk: he wanted Harris also to see it on his face, in his eyes, just how furious he was. He went on, "We don't know exactly what it is, but it's not difficult to imagine it has something to do with his behaviour."

"Captain, I understand that you might resent--"

"You bet I do," Archer spat out, the already flimsy dam of his feelings breaking altogether. "You treated a man like your puppet, used him for your purposes, sent him on a mission without giving him the entire picture, threw him into a situation that involved dangers he was not aware of." His eyes flashed daggers. "You bet I resent what you did, Harris. And you didn't place only Malcolm's life at risk, but my whole ship."

"Lieutenant Reed had made it clear that he didn't want anything to do with the Section after this last mission," Harris replied, unperturbed. "He had no right being made privy to privileged information."

"If you suspected that defector to be in contact with Terra Prime sympathisers, you had a duty to inform Lieutenant Reed," Archer countered. "As a senior officer of Enterprise his face is not exactly unknown. You knew damn well he risked being recognised."

"He would have been all right had he left, instead of waiting near the dead agent. We didn't transport the body out right away because we hoped the man, even dead, would lead us to his friends."

Archer's eyes went wide. He couldn't believe this. "Are you saying that some of your men were around when Malcolm was taken?" he asked in disbelief. "That you were actually there and did nothing to help him?"

Harris raised a hand. "Captain, we aren't quite _that_ callous." He paused. "Reed is good." With a lift of his eyebrows, he added under his breath, "A bit too principled to be in this business, but good." With that irritating tone of a man who thinks he's above criticism, he went on, "He had insisted on working alone. I assigned a couple of men to be on his tail, but he must have spotted them and made them lose his tracks; we didn't know where he was until he contacted me to say the agent was dead. By the time my men got there, he was gone. We had no idea he'd been taken until we raided that apartment."

Archer bit his tongue. There was no point in telling this damn man what he thought of him. He couldn't change what had happened. All he wanted from him now, was to know about that device in Malcolm's head; then he would send him to hell and hopefully not see his face ever again.

"Have you interrogated the people you arrested? Have you gone through the information your men found?" he enquired, averting his gaze – maybe if he didn't look straight into those infuriatingly cold eyes, he would be able to curb his temper. "What can you tell me about this device Lieutenant Reed has been rigged with?"

There was a pause.

"Reed underwent brain conditioning," Harris finally said. "Intense conditioning for two weeks."

Archer felt bile rise in his throat and clenched his jaw, turning back to the screen just in time to see Harris snort in sarcasm.

"Terra Prime people don't seem so squeamish about other species when it comes to things like that," he said. "Apparently they used a well-tested Andorian technique. Not a pleasant thing, I'm told. I haven't viewed the tapes but--"

"What about that device?" Archer cut him off hoarsely. He wasn't going to listen to the detailed description of what Malcolm had been subjected to. He let his eyes turn cold and cutting, and threateningly dissuasive.

Harris acknowledged the silent message with a sigh. "The device is simply something that triggers a response from the subject, makes him follow the instructions he has been programmed to carry out," the agent said, as if 'the subject' were not made of flesh and bones, were not someone who had worked for him. "It activates when it detects a lowering of brain activity. In other words, when the subject goes to sleep."

"It was invisible to scanners until recently," Archer commented, frowning. "As was the re-routing device that nearly caused us to go up in smoke."

"The Section has access to advanced technology. Over a period of several months our defector passed classified information to his _friends_," Harris replied with a reluctant smirk. "An unfortunate leak."

A few very uncomplimentary adjectives went through Archer's mind. He really didn't want to know how or from whom the Section had got anti-scanning technology. What was unconceivable was that Harris could have kept Reed in the blind about that agent's connection with Terra Prime. Again, he had to remind himself that all that mattered, now, was to help Malcolm get back to normal.

"And then I suppose those people wiped out Reed's memories, so he remembered nothing of the time he was in their hands," he wondered aloud.

"Yes. They made him wake up with a headache in a bar. Reed must have thought he had drunk one too many. Not quite in character, but I suppose even he didn't suspect anything. After all, his last memories were about cornering his former colleague, about the man shooting his brain out: Reed would have taken that quite badly."

"Shooting his..." Archer's voice died in his throat. Just how difficult had Malcolm's mission proved to be? He knew his officer, and something like that would have left a painful mark on him indeed.

* * *

Sweat trickled down Malcolm's temple all the way to his jaw, hanging there for a moment before dropping off. It stang in the cut on his forehead. With hands in restraints all he could do was raise straight arms to wipe the sides of his face with his sleeves. His head was beginning to throb where he had banged it in the fall, and he didn't have to think about how tired he felt, or he'd collapse. Nervous energy was the only thing that kept him upright.

"It looks a bit more complicated than any of the charges we were made to disarm at the Academy, but this should be it," Müller breathed out, carefully isolating a wire.

Malcolm tensed. "Wait, Ensign," he said in an urgent voice, before the man did anything further. With a frown he studied the wiring. Suddenly he knew that what he had told Trip was not true: Bernhard _wouldn't_ be okay doing this on his own. A shiver travelled down his spine. "What you're saying is correct," he said with more calm than he felt. "But I put this together, and I definitely wouldn't make things quite so obvious and straightforward. I would have cross-wired the entire thing." He pointed to another wire. "That is what you want to clip."

Bernhard lifted deep, green eyes, in which doubt was painfully obvious. "With all due respect, Sir, that would go against all that I have learnt about explosives."

Malcolm swallowed. He could see the problem. It was his word – the word of a man who had tried to blow the ship up twice in two days – against that of an Armoury man in his right mind.

"I know, Bernhard. But I'm telling you: you don't want to cut that wire," he said quietly. He must make every effort to sound in control.

Müller froze, his eyes boring into Malcolm. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant," he said. "But I can't follow that instruction without first consulting with the Commanders."

They looked at each other for a long moment. Malcolm could read the conflict in the other man's eyes. He knew Bernhard well, he was a loyal man. But his loyalty, right now, and rightly so, must lay with the ship.

"I understand," Malcolm agreed softly, trying not to let his feelings show on the surface. It wasn't a matter of pride; it was a matter of knowing that the safety of them all depended on whether or not his superior officers decided to trust him. And he couldn't in all honesty blame them if they didn't.

* * *

"I expect you to send me all the information you have on this device," Archer virtually ordered the man on his monitor.

Harris narrowed his eyes. "Of course." Before signing off, he added, "I'm sure Reed will recover from this. He's a tough man."

"We will make sure that he does," Archer said deadpan. "And that he never needs to speak to you again."

"Never say never, Captain." As he reached out to cut the communication Harris shot Archer a challenging look.

It was a long moment before Archer could even move. Staring at the Starfleet logo on his screen, he thought of what Harris had told him about Malcolm's mission, cursing himself for having put Reed in a position to feel indebted to the cold-hearted man. _Never again_, he swore to himself. No matter what Harris might think.

At length he shook out of his numbness and pressed the comm. link.

"Archer to T'Pol."

"Yes, Captain," the Science Officer replied. "I was about to page you."

Something in her voice set off an alarm in Archer's brain. "How's it going down there?" he asked warily.

"We have encountered a problem."

As if they hadn't enough of those. "What kind of problem?"

"Lieutenant Reed's suggestion for disarming the explosive is... questionable," T'Pol said, and Archer could picture her eyebrows lifting. "Ensign Müller is not convinced that he should follow it."

"I'm on my way," Archer said, getting to his feet.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

§13§

"I am no expert, Sir, but I have no doubts about what wire should, theoretically, be clipped," Müller said. Darting an uncomfortable side glance at Reed, who was standing impassively nearby, he went on, "Under the circumstances I thought it was my duty to report that the Lieutenant wants me to do differently."

"You did well, Ensign."

From the Engineering catwalk, Archer looked down at the two men on top of the warp engine and saw Reed curb his impatience to speak, waiting to be given permission. But before he did so Archer looked at Phlox, who responded with a reassuring nod: readings were normal.

"Lieutenant?" he finally prompted.

"Captain, by the book Müller _is_ right," Reed immediately replied, as if he had rehearsed the words in his mind until then. "But I set that charge. I recognise my work in that wiring. I know what I would have done. And I know what to do to disarm it: it's _not_ clipping that wire."

There was a moment of silence.

T'Pol latched her hands behind her back. "Captain," she said. "The Lieutenant's reasoning is logical, and the Doctor is not registering any abnormal activity in his neocortex: I believe the Ensign should follow Mr. Reed's instructions, as unorthodox as they may appear."

"Yeah," Trip echoed. "I'm with T'Pol."

"Please trust me, Captain," Malcolm said in a deep voice.

Archer studied his intense grey gaze; then took in the rest of the taut, thin man who was asking him to place the ship in his hands after trying to blow it up twice in a row. He really had no reason _not_ to trust Malcolm, now that they knew what was wrong with him and that that device, if still functional, activated only with his sleep cycle. But after the last couple of days, instinctively a modicum of doubt remained. Well – he decided, straightening his shoulders – he'd have to live with it.

"Ensign," Archer ordered Müller, keeping his eyes locked in those, hollow and dark-circled, of his Armoury Officer. "Follow Lieutenant Reed's instructions. To the letter." With his peripheral vision he saw the tall man nod.

"Aye, Captain." Müller sounded positively relieved.

Malcolm's gaze mellowed into gratefulness, concern visibly melting away from it. "Thank you, Sir," he murmured. "I won't let you down, I promise."

Archer heaved a deep breath, which he let out slowly. "You'd better not, Lieutenant. I'm entrusting you with all our lives."

"Lives I swore to defend." Malcolm pursed his lips, in a determined expression. "My memories might be scrambled, but I haven't forgotten _that_, Captain. I won't let you down," he repeated.

He crouched down near Müller again. "All right, Bernhard," he said calmly. "That wire."

Müller raised it delicately. "If we survive this, Sir, you'll have to teach me a few things about your creative way with explosives."

"It's a deal, Ensign," Malcolm replied, a tense smile tugging at his lips.

Time stood still. Archer found himself gripping the rail as tightly as the knot that had formed in his stomach. He felt Trip shift beside him, and cast a glance at him. The Engineer was looking on, his normally relaxed body uncharacteristically rigid. T'Pol, on the other hand, had her hands loosely crossed over her chest, seemingly the picture of serenity.

The breath Müller blew out seconds later was a reassuring sound if ever Archer had heard one.

"Now that one, Bernhard," Malcolm's voice said, floating up in the silence.

Before they knew it, Reed was rising to his feet, the charge in his manacled hands. He looked like the ghost of himself, his hair matted with perspiration, but for once a full smile was lighting up his face.

"What do you want me to do with it, Captain?" he asked in a casual voice.

Archer responded likewise. "How about if we shoved it out an airlock, Lieutenant?"

Malcolm's smile fell a little. "I'm afraid disposing of evidence like that wouldn't look good in your report to Starfleet, Sir," he said grimly. He handed the contraption to Müller, who looked equally worn out, and glanced at the ladder. "I really wouldn't mind having my hands free to get down," he added. "I already banged my head once today."

"Ensign," Archer ordered.

"With pleasure, Sir."

Archer watched the two men start down the ladder, and turned himself towards the steps leading to the ground floor. Having removed this heavy burden from his heart, another one remained, but he trusted Phlox would be able to remove that one.

A moment later they were all at the foot of the warp engine. Malcolm looked totally spent, but there was a new light in his eyes, one that hadn't been there for a while. Archer clasped a hand to his officer's arm.

"Well done, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, Sir."

"You've earned yourself at least twelve hours of sleep," Trip said, with a sunny grin.

"You better believe it," Malcolm breathed out. Raising a hand to the dressing on his forehead, he grimaced. "My head is killing me."

Phlox passed a scanner over his injury. "I'll give you something to ensure a good rest, Lieutenant."

_Not quite..._ "Actually, Doctor... there is one small problem," Archer butted in, stopping him as he was already reaching into his pocket. The eyes of everyone converged on him, but he met only Malcolm's.

"I've just learnt that the device in your head is designed to activate when it detects reduced brain activity," he said, wincing.

Malcolm narrowed his gaze. "In other words, when I fall asleep?"

He suddenly wobbled, and Archer put out a quick hand to steady him. "Are you all right?"

Phlox spoke up. "No, he isn't, Captain," he said in a stern voice. "This man needs rest, and my readings show that he has disregarded my advice not to skip meals."

"Doctor," Malcolm croaked out, ignoring the Denobulan's reproach. "You can remove this implant, can't you?"

Phlox took a moment to reply, and when he did his tone was quietly professional. "I believe I can, Mr. Reed," he said. "But I must warn you that this kind of surgery always carries with it a certain amount of risk."

There was a dejected huff. "What other option do I have?" Malcolm said in a low voice. His mouth tightened. "I'll take that risk, I want my old life back."

The hint of despair in Reed's words went right through Archer's heart.

"Rest assured: I'll do all I can to give it back to you, Lieutenant," Phlox murmured.

* * *

Trip awoke with the feeling that he was falling and jerked his head up, hissing when a stab of pain went through his neck. That's what you got when you fell asleep slumped on a chair in sickbay. He brought a hand to the sore spot and started to massage some warmth into it. It was maybe a full minute before he realised that a pair of grey eyes were fixed on him. Stopping in mid-movement, he wondered for how long they had been.

Trip opened his mouth to speak, but faltered at the faraway look in Malcolm's gaze: it seemed distant, though it was definitely fixed on him.

Surgery had lasted ages – or at least that's what the three odd hours had felt like. When Malcolm had re-emerged from it, he had been lying on his right side, and hadn't stirred since. A dressing covered a large portion of his head behind his left ear. Between that and the old dressing on his former forehead injury, he almost looked like a mummy.

Phlox had said that the operation had gone as well as it could be expected, but – no disrespect intended – until Trip heard his friend speak, his mind wouldn't be completely at rest; so he had insisted on waiting at Malcolm's bedside until he came to, much to the chagrin of the Doctor, who had wanted to send him to get some rest.

"I'm such a fool."

The words, barely more than a whisper, were clear enough to bring a full smile to Trip's face.

"Well, I'd say the surgery was successful," he commented, with a playful lift of the eyebrows. They fell back when the gibe got no response. No smile came to curve Malcolm's lips, or lighten his eyes.

The monitor at the head of the bed started beeping its alert that the patient was awake.

"Malcolm? How are you feelin'?" Trip asked more seriously.

In an instant Phlox was there. "Welcome back, Lieutenant." He turned the alarm off and his concentrated gaze shifted from his patient to the readings on the monitor; as he checked them, he continued, "You'll be happy to know that the operation went very well."

A soft but melodious 'very good' finally concluded the evaluation, making Trip heave a silent sigh of relief. Phlox's experience was a real blessing on a starship in the middle of the universe: that positive way of his was usually enough to make you feel you were in good hands.

"The device has been fully removed," the Doctor said, for the benefit of his patient. "Any pain?"

Malcolm licked his dry lips. "Headache," he croaked out. He raised a tentative hand to feel the dressing on his head, but Phlox caught it and brought it calmly back to the sheet.

"Perfectly normal. I'll give you something right away."

The Denobulan disappeared, and Trip found himself looking into deep grey eyes again, not quite sure what to make of them.

"You'll be just fine," he said softly, smiling at the realisation that he was telling that to Mr. Fine himself.

Malcolm blinked; then breathed out, "I'm sorry."

Ah, well. Malcolm would be Malcolm. "It wasn't your fault," Trip said patiently. "None of it was your fault."

"Trip... I... We must talk..."

Trip frowned. "Sure, but--"

"Here, Lieutenant."

Phlox was suddenly there again, pressing a hypospray to Malcolm's neck.

"You need to rest," he warned, predictably. Turning to Trip, he added, more sternly, "And you too, Commander. I'll change the dressing on your hand and then you will obediently go to your quarters and get some sleep – on a proper _bed_."

"Alright, Doc," Trip drawled in resignation. He got up and winked at Malcolm, whose eyelids were already at half mast. "Doctor's orders," he pretended to complain. "We'll talk later."

That finally brought just the dawning of a smile on Malcolm's face, but it was gone in an instant, erased by the unconsciousness that was reclaiming him.

* * *

Archer's biggest concern, as a starship captain, had always been the wellbeing of his crew. Meaning every single man and woman. He supposed that on a few occasions that had led him to act a bit rashly, like that time in the Romulan minefield; but that's just how he was: every man and woman on his ship was important to him.

As he walked towards sickbay to see if Malcolm had come to after surgery, he reviewed for the umpteenth time in his mind the reasons for having had Reed contact Harris during the Terra Prime crisis, and came to the same conclusion as all the other times: if he were in that situation again he would act in the same way. His second and third in command – as well as an innocent baby – had been in danger; and not only that: the forming of an important federation of planets had been in the balance.

And how could he have foreseen, even, that his decision would carry these sorts of consequences, for his Armoury Officer and for his ship?

Archer heaved a silent sigh. He was no longer the slightly naïve Captain that had brought Klaang back to Qo'nos: they had gone through thick and thin, and nowadays sometimes he felt the job of starship captain carried with it a bit too much responsibility. But it was still what he loved doing, still his life.

"Hey, Capt'n."

Trip appeared at the end of the corridor, headed in the opposite direction, and greeted him tiredly. He looked like he needed a shower and a good few hours of sleep. As they all did, actually.

"The Doctor booted you out?" Archer teased him, casting a glance at the sickbay doors over Trip's shoulder. He knew that Phlox hadn't been overjoyed to have the Engineer stick around till Malcolm woke up.

"Yeah, he finally managed to get me out of there."

It was good to see the Engineer's face relax into one of his famous charming smiles. It hadn't happened too often, lately.

"Should I gather from your presence and your cheerful disposition that Malcolm has regained consciousness?"

Trip nodded. "Briefly: he's back under; but he was with us long enough to say a few words."

Archer raised his eyebrows. "What did he say?"

Trip's brow creased in an intrigued frown. "Somethin' about bein' a fool," he replied in puzzlement. "And that he was sorry."

"That's our old Malcolm alright," Archer commented deadpan. "He's back."

Trip let out an amused chuckle. "Yeah. Although..." He trailed, shrugging pensively. "I don't know, Capt'n, he seemed to be sayin' that to _me_ in particular. Said we had to talk."

Pursing his lips, Archer said, "Well, if he ever does open up with someone about what he's gone through that will be you, I have no doubt." He knew that there was no chance Malcolm would ever consider unburdening himself with his Captain. "And frankly I hope he does, Trip. I'm no psychologist but I'm sure it would be good for him to get a few things in the open."

"Have you learned more about his mission?" Trip enquired, a cloud darkening his face.

Archer grimaced. "He underwent mental conditioning, some Andorian technique, two weeks of it. And that guy he was sent after, that man he knew, took his own life when Malcolm had him cornered."

Trip's soft curse was covered by a clearing of the throat. They both turned to see Müller a few steps away.

"Captain, Commander," the man said awkwardly.

Archer wondered if he might have overheard the last part of their conversation, but even if he had he was sure Müller would keep it to himself: he was too much of a principled person to feed something like that to the ship's grapevine.

"Ensign, are you still up and about?" he asked in mild reproach, tilting his head as he studied yet another exhausted face. Shifting his gaze meaningfully from one man to the other, he added, "Do I have to make sleep an order on this ship?"

"With all due respect, Capt'n, you shouldn't be talkin'," Trip said.

"That won't be necessary, Sir," Müller added with a tired grin. "At least not as far as I'm concerned. Bed is my next stop. I only wanted to report that Rostov and I have finished putting together the cannon again, and I have analysed the security cameras's tapes. They do indeed show all that happened that night."

"The Lieutenant?" Archer enquired, all lightness gone from his voice.

"I'm afraid so," Müller quietly replied. "He didn't even bother to do anything about the cameras. He must have been sure of..." – he smirked – "_Success_. He put the two men on duty to sleep with some kind of vapour. They have reluctantly admitted to having 'dozed off' on the job. They had no idea they had been drugged. Then the Lieutenant went into the cannon's housing. Finally he worked for some time at the main console. All in all he was in the Armoury for about twenty-five minutes."

Archer sighed. "T'Pol has traced the programming of that virus to that console," he added. "All the pieces of the puzzle fit."

Bernhard threw a worried glance at the sickbay doors. "Was surgery successful?"

"Perfectly. The Lieutenant will be fine." Archer watched Müller visibly relax. "Thank you for what you did, Ensign," he said gratefully. Here was another loyal and dedicated man. His crew was something to be proud of.

"My duty, Sir," Müller replied matter-of-factly, though a proud smile danced in his dark-circled eyes.

"And now I don't want to see you around for the next twelve hours."

Müller nodded. "Captain, Commander."

"Night, Bernhard," Trip drawled.

They watched him walk away. Archer stretched. "Well, we'd better get some rest ourselves."

Trip grinned. "Ya think we've deserved it?"

Archer shook his head, chuckling softly. Trip was back to his light-hearted self, Malcolm was back to saying he was sorry. Things were definitely getting back to normal.

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

I'm very grateful to you all, signed and unsigned reviewers, for all the comments you have left in the past few weeks. It's wonderful to know people enjoy my writing. Also a big thankyou once again to IchthusFish: without those fruitful 'discussions' with you this story would have probably never been finished! Here is the final chapter.

§14§

When Trip entered sickbay a couple of nights later, he stopped dead in his tracks. The curtain around Malcolm's biobed was drawn open, but there was no trace of the man. It seemed a bit early to have him leave Phlox's protective wing.

"Commander," the Doctor greeted him from the corner where he kept the row of cages that contained his infamous and mysterious creatures. "If you're looking for Mr. Reed I've released him to his quarters," he said with a hint of irritation. He let the piece of something he was holding fall into a cage and quickly took his hand away, before his fingers got nipped.

Trip frowned in amusement, more of the Doctor's tone and what it signified than of his peculiar feeding methods. "He was _that_ bad, huh?" he quipped.

"I'm afraid _bad_ doesn't quite describe it." Phlox sighed. "He was getting into a terribly despondent mood. For his own good I had to release him."

Trip's frown deepened. "He is better, though, isn't he?" he prompted. "He _looked_ better."

"Well, as for that, I'm glad to say that you all do," Phlox commented deadpan. "It's quite remarkable what a couple of proper nights' sleep will do to the human body."

A loud screech almost made Trip take a step back.

"The Lieutenant is – what is that Human expression now... ah, yes – on the mend; at least physically," the Denobulan continued as he tipped a bit of powder from a container into a tank; the water suddenly got agitated. "That device left no trace, other than a scar on his scalp. And that too will fade, in due time."

_But what about the other scars?_ Trip mused grimly. Malcolm's invisible scars were often more painful and difficult to cure than the visible ones.

"As for the other scars," Phlox said, as if he had read his thoughts, "It would help Mr. Reed greatly if he could talk to someone. Ensign Sato was here several times during the past couple of days, but I doubt the Lieutenant would have confided his troubles to her."

Trip smiled. Malcolm was too much of a gentleman to let a lady friend, even one as close as Hoshi, share his burden. His smile turned into a grimace when he realised that in the past couple of days he himself hadn't actually stopped in sickbay for longer than a quick hello. He had told himself that sickbay wasn't exactly the place for the private conversation Malcolm had said he wanted to have with him, but if he were honest he had tried to put that off: he had just begun to come out of a harrowing period himself, and wasn't sure how much help he could be with someone else's hurt; moreover, if Malcolm broke the dam of his restraint Trip would have to see with his own eyes just how much suffering his friend had shouldered to help him, T'Pol and little Elizabeth. That, however, was also the reason why he _had_ to speak to Malcolm. He owed him that much.

Trip met Phlox's meaningful look. "Yeah," he drawled. "Thanks, Doc."

"Oh, and Mr. Tucker," Phlox called after him. "Don't forget that you still have at least one dermo-regeneration treatment to take."

"Yup. Tomorrow, promise," Trip threw over his shoulder as he went through the doors.

* * *

When Trip rang the bell of his friend's quarters, the door swished open after no longer than a couple of seconds, almost as if Malcolm had been standing near it. More likely he had been pacing.

The larger dressing on his head had been replaced with a smaller one, and the one on his forehead was gone: a plaster now covered the cut in the middle of a bruise that had begun to discolour into a yellowish hue.

"I went to sickbay but you were gone," Trip said, tingeing the words with a mischievous overtone.

Something flitted across Malcolm's face. "Yes, I..." He broke off and stepped aside. "Come in," he said. Once Trip had entered, he concluded, "I suppose I was obnoxious enough to get released a bit ahead of plan."

Trip chuckled. "Back to normal, then."

"Yes." Malcolm's mouth curved up, only to fall a moment later. "At least I hope so," he tagged, looking suddenly preoccupied. At Trip's questioning frown, he admitted, "I'm a bit nervous at the idea of sleeping without anyone's supervision. I keep reminding myself that it was that device which…" He trailed off and lowered his eyes.

"It _was_ that device, Malcolm," Trip said resolutely. "And it is no longer there."

"Of course." With a tight smile, Malcolm swept a hand in the direction of his desk. "Won't you sit for a moment?"

Accepting the invitation, Trip walked to the desk chair, but didn't sit. He grabbed the back of it and bit his lip. Malcolm might need to talk, but he too had something to get off his chest. No time like now.

"It was all because we were prisoners of Terra Prime," he said tautly. "All you went through was because you got Harris's help." He turned to face his friend. "Because T'Pol and I, and Elizabeth..." His throat suddenly closed up and he choked on the words. Every time he thought of the beautiful baby who, for too preciously short a time, had made a father of him, his heart still clenched with a terrible sense of loss and the wound in it re-opened.

Malcolm's gaze grew intense. "And I would do it again," he said quietly. "I'm only sorry that only two of you could be saved."

It took Trip a moment to regain control. "It's not fair," he croaked out, finally dropping on the chair. _All this suffering_ – he silently added. _Why?_

Malcolm gave a soft, mirthless snort. "Not many things are, in life."

He too sat down, shoulders sagging.

"I owe you an apology," Malcolm eventually said, eyes darting an awkward glance to him.

Trip looked at him, speechless for a moment. "You owe _me_ an apology?" he blurted out. "What are you talkin' about, Malcolm? You were beaten and brainwashed, and went through God-only-knows what else because of--"

Trip cut himself off in mid-sentence. Malcolm's face had twisted visibly.

"Hell, I'm sorry," Trip breathed out, mentally kicking himself for being such an ass. He watched Malcolm try – rather unsuccessfully – to appear untroubled, and captured his gaze before it could shift away. "Have you remembered more?" he enquired softly.

Malcolm shrugged in minimising fashion, but his face told another story. "Pretty well all of it," he mumbled.

Trip felt the colour drain from his face. "You want to talk about it?"

There was a heavy beat of silence.

"I don't think so," Malcolm eventually muttered. "Maybe some day. Not now."

Nodding numbly, Trip was almost glad that silence was again king of the room. Eyes carefully averted, his friend looked to be gathering his thoughts.

"I'm sorry. I'm such a bloody fool," Malcolm repeated at length, his voice dropping an octave.

"You told me that already." Trip narrowed his eyes. "What in heaven's name is there to be sorry about?"

Malcolm pursed his lips and met his eyes squarely. "About being such a blockhead, about ignoring the meaning of true friendship."

This wasn't making any sense. In the name of true friendship, Malcolm had sacrificed himself. Trip feared, for a moment, that Phlox's pronouncement of successful surgery might have been wrong. He realised that his face was betraying his thoughts when Malcolm suddenly got up, his mouth tightening.

The man took a few steps away; but after a moment he turned, as if determined not to shrink from Trip's assessment.

"You showed me that true friendship..." he began. "Damn it," he muttered, with a frustrated grimace, looking unable to find the thread of his thoughts. Crossing his arms over his chest, he focused on the floor.

Trip wanted to say that in the past couple of days he didn't particularly feel he'd been such a true friend, but Malcolm spoke again.

"You don't really know me, Trip," he began again, hoarsely. "There is the upright Lieutenant Reed. And then... then there is the man who went on that damned mission, a man I'm not proud of." He lifted eyes that were like bottomless pools. "I came back and wanted to forget," he went on. "To pretend that only Lieutenant Reed had ever existed."

Arms coming undone as if to lay himself bare, he took a step back, adding more quietly, "The things I remembered, about my mission... I was scrambled and I didn't want you to get a glimpse of that other me. So I shut you out."

He stood there numbly waiting for a reaction, and Trip frowned in confusion. "Hell, Malcolm, we all have a man inside we're not proud of," he said slowly, turning his friend's words in his mind. "I'm honoured to be the friend of the man I know; and I'm perfectly happy with the idea that there is a part of that man which I might not like, or never see."

Malcolm swallowed and his face muscles clenched in determination. "I want you to know. The man I was sent after--"

"Was a Terra Prime sympathiser," Trip cut him off, throwing his hands up in the air angrily. He captured Malcolm's eyes. "Harris sent you into the lion's den without tellin' you, damn him!"

"I know. The Captain told me." Malcolm's voice, by contrast, sounded overly, if dangerously, quiet. His mouth shaped into a downward grimace. "But that man... I had once called him a friend, and..."

He faltered and Trip hurried to fill the awkward silence. "I know what happened. Harris told us everything." He stood up and took a step towards the taut frame before him. Malcolm seemed riveted to the ground. "And I'm quite sure you would've done everythin' possible to bring him back alive." With the hint of a smile, he added, "Because I don't care what you think, but I do know you."

Malcolm blinked, and if emotion appeared in his gaze Trip had no time to see it, for the grey eyes darted away; he heard it in the voice, though.

"When I woke up in sickbay and saw you there, slumped on a chair..." His brow creased. "I realised that true friendship can take the good and bad, withstand even the ugliness." Regretfully, he added, "If I had confided in you, maybe we'd have figured out that I wasn't as _fine_ as I pretended to be; we could have avoided a lot of trouble."

"Maybe we could've," Trip said, "But it was my fault too. I kind of knew somethin' was wrong, I oughtta have tried harder to get close to you."

Malcolm shook his head. "I'm such a sodding fool," he repeated, as if he hadn't heard a word.

Trip flicked him an amused look. "Now stop sayin' that, Lieutenant, or I'll have to agree."

Malcolm's mouth twitched upwards.

"Want me to camp here for the first night?" Trip asked, tilting his head to study his friend; he looked drained. "Ya know, so you can get a good rest."

Malcolm tightened his mouth. "Thanks, but I'm a bit old for babysitting. Besides, I've got to be able to take care of myself, if I want to convince the Captain that I can still take care of his crew." He heaved a steadying breath. "I'll be fine."

"Alright." Trip shot him a last, assessing look; then clasped a hand to Malcolm's arm. "I think it's time I went on my way, then. You look about ready to fall over."

"Trip... I... you..." Malcolm winced, latching his hands behind his neck. "Thank you," he finally blurted out.

"Hey, what are friends for?" Unleashing one of his sunny smiles, Trip started towards the door. "Call if you need me," he threw over his shoulders, as he let himself out.

* * *

"Malcolm, wait!"

Malcolm put a hand on the turbo-lift door, to hold it from closing, and watched a slightly out-of-breath Hoshi hurry to join him inside.

"Thanks," she puffed out, smoothing a rebellious strand of hair behind her ear as she leaned back against the wall. "I hate it when I don't hear the alarm clock," she added darkly.

"Indeed." Malcolm pushed the button to go to the Bridge. He licked his lips and felt the neck of his uniform. Yes, the buttons were all buttoned up and the zipper was just right.

Hoshi shot him a look. "Nervous?"

"Who, me?" Malcolm returned Hoshi's gaze with an innocent lift of the eyebrows, but his flaunted nonchalance lasted but a second. "Terribly," he muttered, the corners of his mouth falling.

This was his first day back on duty, and although the Captain and the crew had all been very kind, treating him as if nothing had happened, he dreaded the moment he'd step back on the Bridge, taking charge, once again, of keeping all of their lives safe.

"You know," Hoshi suddenly said, a dimple appearing at the side of her mouth. "That dressing on your head really suited you." She tilted her head to one side and cleared her throat, adding in that self-assured way of hers, "Too bad it's gone, it gave you the 'wounded hero' look that women find so irresistible".

"Hero?" Malcolm huffed out sarcastically. "Hardly. Aren't you forgetting that I nearly blew the ship up?"

Hoshi shrugged. "I was told by Müller that if it hadn't been for you, he'd have certainly set that charge off. You _saved_ the ship."

"Right, after placing it at risk in the first place," Malcolm muttered despondently.

The lift slowed down as it approached the deck.

"Nonsense. As usual you saved us all from the bad guy." Hoshi pushed off the wall. "Who this time happened to have your body."

As the lift stopped, a second before the door opened she closed the space between them and, leaning with a hand on his arm, gave Malcolm a quick kiss on the cheek. "You were doubly brave. Thank you, my hero." Then she walked out onto the Bridge.

Malcolm stood frozen for a second. What in the bloody hell...?

And he had to admit – put like that the entire thing sounded pretty straightforward. Shaking his head to dismiss the thought, he straightened his shoulders and he took that last, difficult step out of the lift, trying not to think of the blush that was creeping up his neck.

He stopped and stood at attention. "Lieutenant Reed, reporting for duty." He even managed a steady voice – Reed Senior's upbringing put to good use.

"Welcome back, Lieutenant," Archer said warmly, turning.

"Indeed it is agreeable to see you," T'Pol echoed, while Travis swivelled in his chair to give him one of his sparkling grins.

"Thank you," Malcolm replied, darting a glance at each of them before carefully focusing _away_ from the comm. post. That's when he noticed Trip at the Engineering console. He was... Trip was _winking_? To whom?

Malcolm dared a look to the other side, where Hoshi's face was graced by a subtle smile, and narrowed his eyes. _Hmmm_...

Müller quickly vacated the chair at tactical. "Nothing to report, Sir," he said, with his usual professional aplomb.

Nodding his silent acknowledgement, Malcolm sat down. Here he was again. He'd better concentrate. He was checking sensor's readings, when a voice floated to him from the right.

"Havin' a good day s'far?" it asked in unmistakable Southern drawl.

Malcolm turned to another subtle grin, this one under playful blue eyes. The devil...

"You and I have got to talk," Malcolm muttered darkly on the side.

"Again?" Trip said with an innocent lift of the eyebrows.

Malcolm glared at him, but Archer's voice brought his attention to more important matters.

"So, what have we got, T'Pol?"

"Sensors have detected an M-class planet less than half a light year from here. Uninhabited," she delivered with Vulcan poise.

"Good," Archer said, showing the enthusiasm of by-gone days.

Out of the corner of his eye Malcolm saw the Captain turn to the tactical console, and raised his gaze to him.

"We'll go take a look." Boring into him, Archer added, more quietly, "Lieutenant, I'd like you to be part of the away team, if you feel up to it. It's always wise to bring along security."

Malcolm looked deep into his Captain's genuine green eyes; they were the eyes of a man who knew him – knew the Lieutenant and the other man inside him – and still trusted him.

He nodded. The kite had been set free. "I can't but agree, Sir," he replied with a grateful smile.

THE END

No, this wasn't my entry for I Am Fine Month, LOL, though I suppose it could have applied... I'm desperately trying to dodge work to finish my IAFM story... have faith, I'll try very hard! Leave a last review? :-)


End file.
